Defiance
by Last of the Lilac Wine
Summary: The House of Blackmore: We are the gears of war.
1. Prologue

**A/N **Pictures of characters and the trailer for this story can be found by following the link on my profile page.

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**DEFIANCE**

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**HOUSE OF BLACKMORE**

_Though the Blackmore's have never reigned as King's, their house has played an important part in the Eight Kingdom's, economically, for years – as their land is rich in precious jewels and their quarries are extensive and large. It is renowned for its skills in engineering and warfare tactics, though its relatively small size has prevented it from being a serious threat to comparatively larger houses like Baratheon and Lannister._

_The Blackmore army is smaller still – split into the Altara army (named after its capital city) and the 'Rangers' which roam Blackmore's lands and keep the three warring Clann's that reside there in check. _

_The Blackmore sigil is a black turning gear on a brown background and its words are _'we are the gears of war'.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

Robert Baratheon hated the Targaryans. It was known throughout Westeros.

It was whispered that he saw the ghost of the dead maiden, Lyanna in every dream; that when he closed his eyes he relived himself killing Rhaegar Targaryen thousands of times over.

There were also rumors through out the Seven Kingdoms of Queen Cersei and her brother – the Kingslayer – Jaime Lannister. Rumors of a love so utterly forbidden and passionate that many dared no speak of it.

Then there was other gossip – fanciful; conjured out of legend and fear, yet none the less damning – whispers that were barely ripples in a pond, really – whispers of the resemblance Caera Blackmore bore to Rhaegar Targaryan. It was the white hair, some said. An unfortunate resemblance – and faint at that - but a resemblance none the less.

Only the wise know to listen to the trinkets of gossip of housewives and whores, however - but over the years these rumors slowly became bigger than ripples in a pond, but great waves. Waves that would become the cries to arms; the call for war.

Because when Caera Blackmore (who bore the features of a Targaryan) came of age, she was betrothed to Jaime Lannister (whose heart belonged to his sister) in an attempt to forge an alliance between the Houses of Lannister and Blackmore. They were married before the King (who bore an everlasting hate for Targaryans) and it was these accumulation of facts that led to war.

Robert drank too much at the wedding feast, and saw old ghosts once again.

He stole after Caera when she left the feast, and in a fit of drunken rage, saw her as the bastard daughter of Rhaegar Targaryan. He beat her, and Jaime Lannister, who did not love his new wife – did not feel…anything…towards the girl, it seemed – stood by and allowed it to happen. Caera died.

They buried her, the next morning – hoping that the honored burial amongst other great Lannisters would appease the House of Blackmore. The sky was bleak – the white-blue of a blind maesters eyes, and soldiers watched as the Blackmore girl was lowered into the ground from their positions on the walls like over-grown birds of prey. Real birds took flight into the sky and the ceremony was done.

Some of the King's council saw Caera Blackmore's death as a chance to move forward, crush the Blackmore house, and claim their huge wealth and land for themselves. Others were more wary.

It was rumored that the Blackmore's had solid alliances with Stannis Baratheon and the House of Tully; that their machines for war were something lesser men could only dream of…some feared that this would be the chance the Blackmore's had been waiting for: that in their rage they would rise up, declare war…and seize the crown for themselves…

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**A/N **Thank you for reading!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N **Pronunciations for this chapter:

BYRDE: BYE-erd

CAERA: Care-uh

GAEL: Gale

* * *

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**GAEL**

* * *

Altara, the city of three citadels.

It was built on three hillocks; each hill mounted by a vast fort and each fort connected by walls almost ten meters thick in a triangular formation.

The largest citadel, made out of the white stone that came from the Blackmore's legendary quarries, was called Queen's fort, though a Queen had never actually resided there.

It was here in its highest hall, where Lords and council members were met, that Gael Blackmore wept.

She stared out of the hall's largest window, over the hilly terrain of her land to the south west where she knew King's Landing would be. In her hand, a letter was crumpled.

"What madness is this?" she spoke, her voice shaking. "I send my sister to be wedded to Jaime Lannister, and instead I hear news that she is dead at Robert Baratheon's hands."

"They say the drunk fool thought she was Rhaegar Targaryan's bastard," a man's voice said.

Gael turned, her face twisted into a sneer. "And as Caera's womb-sister that would too make me a Targaryan bastard – God's! Too long have I had to stand for Robert's folly."

Before her, six men sat round a heavy oak table that took up almost the entire expanse of the hall. Her brother – Garrett – her cousins, Ser Leon and Ser Cedric who flanked their father and her uncle, Kane Blackmore; and next to them sat her advisor and steward, Cahan Cassain and finally Bard – a handsome man and second General of the Altaran army. All of them were older and perhaps far more experienced than herself, but it had always been customary for the woman of the Blackmore house to rule their land, and for the son's to take the honored positions with in its army.

The man who had spoken – Cassain; rugged, and about fifty with black hair now graying – snarled, "the man can barely rule. So far the Crown owes us a million gold coins for our stone, our jewels and our weapons – we have seen neither hide or hair of this money and still the debt grows."

"They have to pay it back," Ser Leon insisted from across the table. "If they failed to, we would have to…"

The room was suddenly silent, and Gael sighed, taking her seat at the head of the table. "Go to war," she finished for him. "We could ask the other houses to simply put an end to all trade rights with the crown and it would sink like a rock – but I can't see some houses so openly sabotaging the King."

"We could deny them trade," suggested Cassain, gruffly, as he pushed a heavy stack of parchment across the table towards Gael. "These are the documentations I've made over the years of transactions we've had with the Crown. They've got a quarter of their money tied up in our quarries and workshops, and a third of the debt they have is owed to us."

Gael flicked through the sheaths of parchment and rage began to boil within her as she slowly began to understand that the Crown would never be able to pay the money they owed her house back.

"They would never let us deny them trading rights," spoke a husky voice. Garrett addressed her advisors from her immediate right. As her brother, and as the eldest Blackmore male – therefore the first General of the Altaran army – he retained the seat of honor by her side. The age gap between Gael and Garrett was some seventeen years and she couldn't help but feel like some fool-hardy child playing ruler when sat next to him. "We're too important to the function of Westeros."

"Then what would you suggest, Garrett?" snapped their uncle. "Things cannot continue as they have."

"No," cut in Gael firmly, "They cannot."

She surveyed the arguing men around her and took a deep breath, "You are all right," she said, clearly and precisely. "Things cannot continue as they have, yet we all know that they will. The Crown will continue to reap what we have to offer as long as we swear allegiance to them. The King is a fool. He has killed Caera and made a goat's carcass of ruling Westeros. It will come to war before the year is out…My proposition to you, now, is that we revoke our words of loyalty to the crown and demand independence - embracing the Targaryan name Robert so ridiculously placed on my sister – giving me, as her twin, a legitimate right to the Iron Throne."

There was a rumble of noise from around the table, and she held up her hand, "Please, allow me to finish…" her heart was beating rapidly, and each word came out ringingly loud, echoing in the suddenly silence of the hall. "Robert Baratheon is no longer fit to rule Westeros; already it crumbles around us. Other houses will stand and join the struggle, but somebody must have the courage to make the first move and start the fight. 'We are the gears of war'" she quoted, and then swallowed, finishing: "And we must be the first to get them turning."

Bard rubbed at the scruff of his beard. "Aye, it's a good idea my Lady, but we don't have the military strength to carry out such a plan. The Altaran army is but five thousand strong."

"If others were to join the brawl, though…" Cassain argued, looking thoughtful, "we might not need a large army." He paused, and then cackled. "Ah, but I'd love to see Robert Baratheon – once mighty warrior! - try to fight us after fifteen years of sitting on his arse, eating his way to becoming as wide as he is tall!"

"It's a gamble we cannot risk," Garrett said, cutting over Cassain's mirth, and turning to fix his intense stare on Gael. "I refuse to let you renounce the honor of our mother and name yourself the bastard child of one of the most hated men in our history, sister."

Every man's eyes were on Gael and she stiffened, struggling to keep a calm voice and not retaliate to her brother's anger. "This decision will not easily be made," she said, coolly, "We will gather here again this evening and I will deliver my final choice to you then."

Bard stood, swiftly. "My Lady," he said, bowing. "By your leave I will go back to the training barracks."

"You may go," she said, nodding and rising also.

A hand gripped her arm and she turned to see Leon, blue eyes burning beneath his red hair. "No matter what, the Usurper will pay for what he did to Caera, my little cousin," he promised, quietly. "I'll cut off his head myself."

Gael looked for a moment, blinked, and then laughed. "_That_, Leon, is why the Blackmore's choose their woman to rule," she said and chuckled at the look of surprise on his face. "What would you men be with out your honor and your heroic gestures?"

"Not men. There's a reason why cowardice on the battle field is cause for shame," he said, joining in with her laughter. Something caught his eye over her shoulder and she turned to see Garrett watching them.

"Go, now," he said, still chuckling slightly. "Your brother is in need of you – and Gael?"

She turned back to face him, having started to make her way across the hall to join her elder brother. "Try to make the right decision."

All traces of laughter left her face and she nodded.

There was silence as Leon left the room, and then Garrett was offering her his arm and talking to her, "walk with me," he requested, and she curled her hand round his elbow and allowed him to lead her.

They left the citadel and walked out into Altara.

Queen's Fort was the highest spot in the city, and great flagstone steps led down the hill it sat on and into the main complex. At the base of these steps, to the right was the Fort of Cobblers on a slightly smaller hill, in which workshops had been set up by blacksmiths and saddlers, engineers and bootmakers; and to the left – at the very front of Altara – was the third fort literally known as the 'peak of the city', which was now merely residential halls for the soldiers..

There was a fourth, smaller hill, on which a few trees and a shrine to the Gods sat, and there were barracks and stables and workshops, but no sign of an actual town. Altara, first and foremost, was a military encampment.

"Gael," said Garrett after they'd walked a little while in silence. The long grey woolen coat he wore blew round his knees, and he had the collar pulled up to ward off the biting wind. He had the Blackmore's grey eyes that matched the steel of the sword strapped at his side, but his hair was darker than Gael and Byrde's ever would be. "We cannot win a war against the Baratheon's and the Lannister's - surely you must know this."

"I trust that we can, and that the time to strike is right," she insisted, and schooled her features into a smile as an elderly guard approached them.

"My Lady," he said, bowing on one knee in front of Gael. It was a formality towards her that the people had long since adopted, and a tradition that Garrett was growing increasingly wary of. Treat a woman like a Queen, and she will think she is one.

"Allow me to express my deepest condolences for the Lady Caera's death," the man said. "The people of Blackmore mourn with you, I assure you."

Gael smiled slightly. "Get up Kert - you do not need to kneel to a woman you have chased from the battlement walls since she was a girl no higher than your knee."

Kert grinned. "Aye, but that girl has grown into a Lady now, and the formalities must be observed."

She laughed, and Kert's face suddenly grew serious as he turned his wrinkled old face to the sky. It was grey, just with-holding a storm. "These are bad times, my Lady. Losing Caera like that and…it feels like there's a war coming. Gods damn me, but it does."

Gael glanced quickly at Garrett who shook his head. "Peace, Kert. A war is not upon us yet," he clapped the man on the shoulder, "return to the battlements and make sure the men aren't dozing or dicing."

"Of course, my Lord," he said, shooting one last look at the siblings and then at the sky before trotting off.

Gael gave Garrett a significant look and he rolled his eyes. "An old man's misgivings are hardly a reason to go to war with the Crown. We are too few and unprepared."

Before Garrett could start walking again, though, she stopped him. "Look around you, brother, what do you see?"

He looked, and saw the flattened space of land covered in sand on which Bard was training a handful of men with swords; he saw the stables, and carts filled with rocks and food and other cargo trundling in and out of the city gates. He heard the sounds of smithies' hammers and the voices of people at market.

"I see the land I swore to protect," he said, finally.

"And I see a people that have been preparing for war since the birth of the Blackmore House," she replied. "I see a people who deserve independence."

Garrett shook his head. "You are _blinded_," he said. "By your grief for Caera and your love for your people. What army do you propose to win this war with?! The Altaran army? I lead it, I know it better than anyone. The men are five thousand strong – we could not hold out in a siege for a day! The Rangers Byrde captains are scattered around Blackmore – the Tully's – our allies – are halfway across Westeros!"

"Other's will join the war," insisted Gael, heatedly. "We will not face the might of the Lannisters' and the Baratheons' alone; Stannis has pledged five thousand swords to me! I can marry if we need to expand our army!"

Garrett grabbed her forearm, drawing her close to him. "You cannot marry, Gael," he snarled in a harsh undertone. "We both know that no rich Lord in their right mind would marry a barren woman. We could lie, but when you would fail to produce an heir after two years or so, you would be cast aside, useless to your people – caged by the marriage vows you took under the eyes of the Gods. No, sister, you will not marry."

Gael recoiled from his touch, tears stinging her eyes. Garrett almost regretted his words and his face softened.

"Robert will die soon, Gael. We will not suffer his reign much longer."

"And then another fool King will replace him, Garrett. We _must act_,"

He did not doubt her words, but all he could see was death and destruction in the course his sister wanted to take. "Then someone else will start the war for the Iron Throne. But it will not be us – not today."

"As far as I'm concerned, the battle bloody started when Robert murdered our sister and took our money and our lands resources. I refuse to sit by and allow more ill fortune beset our people."

"So you've made your decision?" he snapped.

Her face suddenly froze as if she were surprised and then she nodded slowly. "Yes," she whispered, comprehension dawning on her face. "I have."

* * *

The darkness of night was beginning to fall and the hall was lit with candles that made the shadows flicker and flames burn in Gael's grey eyes.

The men had reassembled round the table to hear her final decision – the eighth chair, meant for her brother, Byrde – left empty. She wished he could have been here, but there was not the time to summon him from wherever he was in Blackmore.

"I'll make this quick," Gael said, "so that the necessary preparations can be made…I'm sure by now you can all guess at the decision I have come to. We cannot remain blind to what is happening in Westeros. Economically, we will be crippled if we do not act soon. Our honor is at stake if we let the death of my sister slide because we are too frightened to stand up for what is right. We assume, because we keep to our own lands; do not trifle overly much in foreign affairs, that our lives do not touch the other houses. We assume that our towns and cities are built on a different land to them. We assume that we live under a different sky. But we are all part of Westeros. They are touched by the Crown's folly also.

And because of that, a time will come when Westeros is a poor man's kingdom. Blackmore's wealth will not easily be forgotten – mark these words that one day, there are those that will wish to seize it for themselves.

I ask you all now to help me force Robert Baratheon's hand. Name me the bastard of Rheagar Targaryan, as he named Caera – and as long as an heir lives, the Crown cannot ignore us. War will be inevitable, and others will use that chance to take the Iron Throne. We will not stand alone."

Gael took a deep breath.

"I ask you to support me in this."

Each man was silent until Bard stood from his seat. "The time feels right to strike, my Lady. I will swear from here to the furthest reaches of Westeros that you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

"As will I," rumbled Cassain. "It is about time we saw a Blackmore rule."

"Aye," agreed Kane. "And I could do with a good fight. You're my niece, lass, and Lady of our lands – I'll back the claim."

"I promise you plenty of fighting, Uncle," Gael, said softly. "All that you can stomach and then some – but I'll need a General for my army," she turned to Garrett. "Brother?"

Garrett had sat through out her speech, staring into the fire that the servants had kindled in the half at the corner of the room.

Gael felt a lump in her throat.

_He has to back me_, she thought. _Gods, he has to! _

His intense gaze lifted to her face and she met his eyes unflinchingly. "Nobody wants what is best for Blackmore more than I," he said to her, quietly. "But I cannot give my men so openly to you when I fear all that is down this road you have chosen for them is destruction and death."

Gael growled, slamming her hand down on the table in irritation. "Ever have your military been a spear at my throat Garrett! Ever! They are here to wage wars and fight – not to hide in holes like scared rabbits!"

"I will not budge on this, Gael."

"-My Lady," Bard interrupted. "You already have a Second General of the Altaran Army and the General Commander pledged to you," he said, gesturing to himself and Kane. "We can still fight with out his Lordship."

"I need a First General," Gael said, adamantly.

"A role I would be happy to take on," said Bard.

Garrett stood quickly, knocking his chair to the ground. "Have you forgotten your place, man?" he roared. "That position is _mine_."

"And yet you will not fulfill it when need for you is presented," said Gael coolly, yet grinning internally. Garrett would have no choice but to support her for fear of losing his command of the military. He was trapped. "So what am I to do?"

He turned to her. "Damn you Gael," he snarled. "Damn you and this whole fools idea of a plan."

"It's a good plan," she said mildly – and then more sternly, "swear to me, though. Swear that you'll help me achieve this."

He sat down heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I swear."

She nodded to herself in satisfaction after Ser Leon and Ser Cedric made similar pledges and then turned to Cassain. "Send out word," she ordered. "Gael of Blackmore has declared herself Rheagar Targaryan's daughter and rightful heir of the Iron Throne. The House of Blackmore denies trade with the crown and demands all debts be repaid. Declare open warfare if these demands are not met."

He bowed. "At once, my Lady."

Gael turned to Garrett, Bard and Kane. "I want a recruitment campaign set up through out Blackmore. Enlist as many willing men to the Altaran army as possible – I don't care if they're beggars, blacksmiths or mummer's fools, just train them into soldiers with in the month. Ser Leon?"

"M'lady?"

"Send out word for my brother to return home."

"Byrde?" asked Leon, in confusion.

"Yes. There's something I need him to do for me."

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**A/N **_Loved_ writing this chapter!

I hope it gives an accurate enough depiction of new characters and a general idea of Altara, whilst keeping a steady pace.

Please remember to **review**!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	3. Chapter 2

**DEFIANCE **

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**ROBERT**

* * *

It was the first time Robert had sat with his council in almost three years and the first time he had shown any interest in the goings on in Westeros in the same amount of time.

"Seven hells," he roared, "_why _do the Blackmore's insist on letting their woman rule when they throw hysterical outbursts like this?!"

"Calling a declaration of war a hysterical outburst is the largest understatement, brother," the King's younger brother, Renly, pointed out with a laugh. He glanced back down at the letter they'd received from Cassan Cassain, the steward of Altara, and said; "she's also threatened to cancel trading with the Crown; demanded Blackmore's independence from the Eight Kingdoms and named herself…the bastard daughter of Rhaegar Targaryan."

A vein bulged in Robert's forehead. "_And is she_?"

"Of course not, your Grace," Varys said, resting a pudgy white hand on Robert's arm. When he withdrew it, it left a powdered stain on Robert's sleeve and he grumbled to himself. "She _is _the legitimate daughter of Argon and Jaine Blackmore – there can be no doubt in that."

"Well what's the damn point in declaring herself a Targaryan bastard then, when she's blatantly _not_?"

"Because," said Renly, "the little minx has got six men who will swear before the Gods – or, more importantly, at knife edge - that she _is _the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryan, giving her – I'm afraid – a better claim to the Iron Throne than you, Robert."

The implications of what had been said struck the king finally, and his voice was more disbelieving than angry when he said: "The Blackmores _dare _declare war on us?"

"So it would seem."

Littlefinger suddenly spoke up. "My Grace, if I may," he interrupted, resting back in his chair, "the Blackmores have incomprehensible wealth and resources. We cannot allow them to deny us trading rights, but nor can we force them to return to their old alliance with the Crown when they remain so outraged by Caera Blackmore's…unfortunate end. A war could be quite –" he coughed, "_advantageous_ to the Crown. The Blackmore's army is relatively small – they will be overwhelmed easily by our sheer numbers alone – and that wealth and land could be ours before the year is out."

"-But nobody wants a war, my Lord," Varys added, his voice dripping like sickeningly sweet honey. "Battle against Blackmore could spark other conflicts and there may be some that – ah – oppose your rule who will back the Blackmore girl."

Robert stroked his beard uneasily, feeling the true folly of his actions for the first time. Caera Blackmore haunted his dreams as well as Lyanna now, and he feared she would until the day he died.

"Will these bloody Targaryan's give me no peace?" he snarled, angrily. "You warn me of one fool Targaryan girl across the sea and another fool girl who claims the name in order to defy me."

"Focus on the fool girl closer to home, then, your Grace," said Varys, firmly. "I urge you to make negotiations with the Blackmore's so that it does not come to a war."

"Fine, Varys," said Robert, waving a hand, "take a consort of the royal guard and try and talk some sense into the girl – I must travel north to the Starks, anyway, I mean to ask Ned about becoming the Hand."

He missed the significant glances shared between the other Council members and quickly departed the chambers shortly thereafter.

"It is a pity that you are so against it coming to a war over the Iron Throne, Varys," said Littlefinger, as he feigned interest in his fingernails; his feet kicked up upon the table. "It would have made things quite interesting."

"Oh, I mean for it to come to war," said the eunech, smoothly. "I just want to ensure that the Lady of Lies has no chance of winning it – therefore, I must delay this war for as long as possible."

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**A/N **'The Lady of Lies' is a reference to Gael Blackmore. It will be used quite a lot by her enemies from now on, in reference to her claim on the name Targaryan.

I'm not sure how much I can reveal here about Varys motives for wanting to delay the Blackmore's war – book spoilers and all that – but I'll just say that he wants to wait until Daenerys has come across the sea.

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	4. Chapter 3

**DEFIANCE **

* * *

**BYRDE**

* * *

Byrde threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding an axe aimed for his head.

There was a roar of dismay from his foe as the metal stuck into the ground with the force meant for the blow and he twisted round, sinking his blade into the man's thigh.

He went down on one leg, giving Byrde a view of burning black eyes, bared teeth and tattoos before Garse ran a spear through the man's torso. He slumped forwards - the wound gushing blood that soaked into the already saturated ground.

Byrde glanced around and saw six more of the savages sprawled on the grass, his ten men beginning to regroup after the brief battle.

"A scouting party," said Garse, grimly, spitting a mixture of blood and phlegm out of his mouth. "They shouldn't be this close to the towns and villages."

Byrde's shirt was so grimy that he hesitated to wipe his weapon on it, so he knelt down and swabbed his sword on the grass. "They're getting desperate," he said, nodding – and then, "anyone hurt?"

"Aye," shouted Luric, hearing his words. Byrde turned to see the dark-haired man grinning as Marr wrapped a bandage around his upper arm. "But I made the bastard rue the day he crawled out of his mother's –"

Byrde unhooked a flask from his belt and threw it to Marr. "Give him some brandy before he starts crowing about his prowess on the battlefield." He turned back to Garse, who was staring at the corpse of the man Byrde had fought.

"These Parsaii?"

"No," said Byrde, shaking his head. He crouched down and rolled the man over, exposing his left shoulder. On it was a black tattoo of a circle with two crescent moons in that were back to back. "Epidii – these are Bavia's men."

"They shouldn't be this close to the towns and villages," Garse repeated, looking troubled.

Byrde hesitated. "Rumor has it that the Clanns' have almost doubled in number;" he said, "They're running out of land."

_And if they get much bigger, _he thought, _it's going to take more than my Rangers to stop these damned crazy, homicidal tribal folk. _

He stood up swiftly. Ranger's weren't inhibited by armor – all Byrde wore was a plain grey shirt and a vest of padded leather to protect his torso – much better to be able to move quickly and melt into the surrounding landscape when fighting tribal men, than wear big, heavy armor that would only slow you down. It wasn't like their enemies wore armor, either.

The Clann people covered themselves in blue war paint – symbols and runes of their ancient language which they believed harnessed their God's power and gave them luck. All that blue made the individual black Clann tattoo on their shoulder easy to spot.

Byrde looked to the North, eyeing the woods where the tribes resided warily. The Clann warriors favored small, mobile forces to attack the surrounding villages or his men; taking advantage of the hilly terrain and trees that were more accommodating of small units.

Over the years, Byrde had had to adapt the Rangers fighting style: meeting these small units with small forces of his own. He disliked scouting with only ten men at his side, but it meant that they could go into combat more easily.

"We should go," he said, "we shouldn't be so close to the woods and we need to get to Whitebridge before sundown."

Garse nodded and gathered up the men. Their horses were tethered to a nearby tree and as Byrde mounted Stepper – his rugged black gelding - he thought wistfully of the inn at Whitebridge – a mug of ale, some dice and a few men to gamble with sounded good just then.

Byrde hadn't been fool enough to take on the Lordship and Lady titles and graces that his siblings had, he reflected. A man could lose his head in all that political scheming. No, he was the Captain of the Rangers. If his sisters and brother were East in Altara, then he wanted to be as bloody far West as possible and if they were South, then he'd track North into the woods and live amongst the Clann's and damn it all.

As they set off, Garse pulled his horse up to ride beside Byrde's. "The more of them we kill, I worry the more they'll send down into Blackmore lands."

"What do you mean send _into_ Blackmore lands," said Byrde, annoyed. "They _live _on Blackmore land, damn it. The woods _belong_ to the Blackmore's."

"I'd pay good money to see someone convince Prastagus of that. That land belongs to the Clanns now – those woods are sacred to them."

Byrde grumbled under his breath. He didn't quite understand the politics behind the Clanns and the Blackmore's, but he knew that the Clanns were divided into kinds of factions, or sub-Clann's, with individual leaders. At the head of them was Prastagus Parsaii, of the leading Clann Parsaii, who'd struck some kind of deal with Argon Blackmore, Byrde's father. Apparently, however, deal's and alliances to the Clanns were made between Leaders, and not between Houses or bloodlines, so the moment Byrde's Pa died, whatever fragile alliance had been assembled between the pair was dust and the Rangers were now needed more than ever.

"We're not supposed to be killing them anyway," said Byrde. "I thought the whole point of the Rangers was that we were the Shepard's and they were the sheep and we just – y'know – fenced them in."

"Fencing sheep in that are armed with axes and swords is more difficult than one would think," replied Garse, dryly.

"Seven hells it was a _metaphor_, man," snapped Byrde, irritably.

His second-in-command looked amused but did not immediately reply. "Have you heard from your siblings recently?" he asked, after a while.

"No," said Byrde, shortly. "Why?"

Garse, with his sharp eyes and dry sense of humor, nodded towards the sky. It was that cool hour before night and the sky was turning a rapidly deepening shade of grey. There, wheeling over head was a messenger raven.

Byrde drew Stepper to a halt atop a stony ridge covered in tussocks of green-yellowing grass that was native to the Northern territory of Blackmore land. His men reigned in their horses beside him and they watched quietly as the raven swooped down, landing on Byrde's arm.

Attached to its leg was a small scroll of parchment and Byrde quickly untied and unfurled it. It had been a while since he had had to read, and in the failing light it took a while for him to discern the letters on the page before him.

"Caera's dead," he announced, finally.

A murmur rippled through the men and Marr trotted his horse over to him. "Gods be good," he swore. "_How_?"

Byrde saw no point in concealing the truth, "Robert Baratheon," he said. "On her wedding night. Gael demands my return straight away."

He scratched at the blonde scruff on his jaw for a moment before saying, finally, "we'll make for Whitebridge with haste. You can stay there and Garse and I will find new horses and go to Altara. With any luck if we ride through the night I should get there by midday, tomorrow."

The men readily agreed, and as they moved forward the raven flew off with an ill-sounding _caww! _

Byrde was not effected overly much by the news of Caera's death – the girl, losing out on Gael's title of Lady of Blackmore because she had been born but seven minutes later, had been sent to King's Landing as a ward in the hopes that she would gain better marriage prospects there. Byrde had seen her but a few times after that, and discovered that growing up in King's Landing had caused her to grow into a silly, vain little thing; with none of the Blackmore steel or ambition and bearing little resemblance to her twin sister in personality or looks.

As Caera's womb-sister, however, he imagined that Gael would be distressed by the news.

"Such tidings as Caera's death is," spoke Garse to him in a quiet undertone as they rode, "I fail to see how it warrants your return to Altara."

"Gael's declared war on the Crown," replied Byrde in an equally muted voice. "I would throttle her if she weren't so much like me."

Garse chuckled. "Not quite. Your sister's impulsive but she's no idiot." Byrde scowled and Garse paused, his voice sounding more serious and considering, "war in Westeros was inevitable…making the first move may not be as irrational as we may think. At least she goes to battle on Blackmore's terms."

"I just hope she doesn't mean to make me some General of the Altaran army," grumbled Byrde. "My place is leading the Rangers, and I'll be blasted if she's so focused on King's Landing that she doesn't see the real threat."

"The Clanns?"

Byrde nodded, glancing uneasily over his shoulder at the darkened woods now miles behind them. "That forest conceals many things. We have no idea how many tribes there are now – how many people. We could have an army right on our threshold and not know it."

"Then it would be best that you warn your sister as soon as possible," Garse stated, and kicked his horse into a gallop. Byrde urged Stepper forward after him, and Marr, Luric and the rest of his men soon followed.

* * *

By the time the small group reached Whitebridge it was hours into the night and the horses were breathing harshly and sweating. Many of the men dismounted and headed for the nearest inn but Garse and Byrde trotted down the road at the center of the village, searching for stables where they might get fresh horses and rest their own.

"You know, Byrde, many men have wives," said Garse, as his companion complained once again over leaving Stepper in Whitebridge, "not a pony."

"I'm fond of the horse," defended Byrde. "And besides, only a bloody fool marries."

Garse grimaced as they trotted through a path of light shed onto the road by a window and his wedding band caught the light. "No offense."

"If that is true, you are one of the very few, sane, men in Westeros, Byrde," said Garse, rolling his eyes. "Gods help us."

They found it difficult, given the hour, to find manned stables, but eventually Byrde coaxed a man out of his house with a gold coin or two.

"Fine horses, these are," said the stables-maeaster, grinning as the light of the lantern he held aloft caught the gold in his hand once again. "Worth the gold, I promise you, lads. Worth the gold."

Byrde was about to voice that he very much doubted two inbred ponies with not a lame leg to stand on between them would be worth _two _gold coins, but suddenly a scream rent the air.

"_Fire_," a woman's voice wailed. "_Fire_!"

His head wrenched round to detect where the noise had come from and he saw an orange glow back down the road he and Garse had come down.

"Get those horses, man," Byrde instructed. "And quickly."

The stable-maester hurried round the back of his house and returned with two horses, both brown and saddled. One of the beasts reared up onto its hind legs in fright as it sensed the fire and panic in the air but Byrde calmed it quickly, vaulting onto its back.

He kicked the beast into a run and it galloped back down the road towards the source of the noise.

_Acting like a bloody hero_, Byrde thought to himself, mockingly.

But he almost had to leave Whitebridge itself before he came to the source of the fire.

Ablaze in the darkness, a house was crackling with flames. A group of village people had gathered in a ring but hadn't moved to help, which struck Byrde as odd. He dismounted his horse behind the crowd - vaguely aware of Garse next to him - before pushing through the small group of people.

A man, dressed too richly to truly belong to Whitebridge, yet in a manner that belied his rough-hewn appearance, was sat before the ruins of his house.

"Is this your holding?" Byrde asked.

"One of them," the man grumbled, resting his arms on his knees and looking up at Bryde. There was soot on the finely embodied sleeves of his coat.

"Was there anyone in there - your family?"

The man barked a laugh. "Gods no."

"He lies!" yelled a woman from the crowd. "I saw two men go in! I heard shouting!"

Byrde's sword tip was touching the man's neck before he could blink. "Is this true?"

"Put that thing away, boy, before you do me some real damage," he growled.

"I'll carve out your eye, _old man_," snapped Byrde, pressing the sword into his neck until he drew blood. "Murder is punishable by death in these lands. So I'll ask you again, _is this true_?"

"Do you want to go in and verify what the cow said, or would you rather take my word that I'm innocent?"

Byrde glanced at the burning house. The left wall had crumbled down completely and the fire was burning out of control.

He couldn't take the man into custody, though, unless he had proof – nor could he leave such a blatant murderer running free.

And Byrde had never been one to back down from a challenge.

He undid the buckles tying on his leather body armor, and then ripped off his shirt, dunking it in a pail of water and wrapping it round his head and face.

"Don't be such a fool, Byrde!" Garse yelled as he handed him his sword, but Byrde had already stormed off into the house.

The heat was intense, the smoke almost blinding him.

Everywhere, everything burned.

He moved through rooms, knocking over furniture as he searched; his skin burning and blistering.

Close to the heart of the house, he found the body of one man. Half his face had been burned away and he was slumped – obviously dead – against one of the remaining standing walls.

Byrde hauled him up, but didn't immediately move – squinting for a moment at the rooms he had just come through. It looked like some massive force had blown them apart, in a way that couldn't have been caused by the fire.

His thoughts were interrupted by a beam falling from the ceiling over head that crashed into the stairs and he lurched forwards, struggling to support the weight of the dead man.

Through the Gods fortune, though, he made it outside – panting.

The left side of his body was smeared in blood and gore from the corpse, and he dropped it into the grass with disgust.

"Bind his hands and find him a horse," Byrde instructed of Garse, nodding to the man. "We're taking him with us to Altara."

"That was an idiot thing to do, Byrde"

"Then I'm an idiot man," he said, taking his sword back from his friend. "What is your name? Who are you?" he demanded of the older man as Garse bound his hands together.

"My name is Carrick Bain."

"Why did you kill that man?"

"Men," he corrected, with a cough. "I think you would have found that there were two more bodies in there."

"Why did you kill them?"

Bain merely stared at him, and Byrde growled, grabbing the reins of his horse. "Keep your silence, then."

Garse returned with another horse and Byrde watched with narrowed eyes as Carrick Bain mounted it fluidly, despite his bound hands.

The man had to be an exiled Lord of some sort.

His face was battle-grooved and he exuded an air of calm precision that most _King's_ did not have, damn it.

He and Garse shared a look, clambering up onto their own steeds.

_The Questioners will get the truth out of him_, thought Byrde, bleakly.

* * *

**A/N **Not my favorite chapter, but it sets the general idea of things to come.

Yes, this will be a multiple POV fic, and there are still _more _characters to be introduced – so, yeah.

Please **review** – even though this has a small number of readers, it's still nice to know what people think!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N **Really, really short chapter. Sorry.

* * *

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**DAENERYS**

* * *

Daenerys Targaryan had never seen her brother so angry.

Viserys' purple eyes positively _burned _with fury as he paced before herself and Illyrio.

"The bitch _dare _steal our name?" he raged. "She _dare _claim my thrown?!"

"The news came to me yesterday, your Grace," said the magister, bowing. "I thought you should know."

_Your Grace_, thought Daenerys, distractedly. _Why do they call him that? He is not the king. _

And yet she too felt fire in her belly. She had known no life outside exile, yet her brother had installed in her the sense that reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms was both their right and their duty. And now this woman – this girl-ruler – from across the sea wanted the Iron Throne for herself.

"We must send assassins after her," Viserys' stormed. "She _must _be killed – she will pay."

"Of course, your Grace," said Illyrio. "I know several hired knives we can send, but the best will, ah, _cost_."

Daenerys understood the implications. Viserys' was known as the 'beggar king' to many and they had little or no money to their name. She watched as the dragon woke in her brother.

He rounded on Illyrio. "You _will _find knives loyal to the Targaryan's and you _will _send them to kill the Blackmore whore," he snarled. "You will do this for me. Go. Now."

The magister nodded, heaving his fat body from the chair he sat in and leaving the room.

Viserys then rounded on Danny and for a horrible instant she thought he would take his rage out on her, but he merely strode over, forcibly taking her shoulders in his hands to turn her towards the large map of Westeros that hung on the wall.

"Look at this map, sweet sister," he hissed in her ear, his fingernails biting into the skin of her forearms. "See where the Blackmore land is and remember. When we claim the throne, it will burn. They will be the first to suffer- the dragon does not forget its enemies."

Daenerys looked at the map. She saw the names of Casterly Rock; the Eyrie – places Viserys had spoken of but that she had never known.

But the sight of the Blackmore land…the Blackmore land was something Danny felt burn into her memory. She saw its boundaries, she saw where it lay.

Her brother was right.

The dragon would not forget.

* * *

**A/N **_Please _review – I'm beginning to doubt that anyone is actually reading this story.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N **Pronunciations for this chapter:

NIAMH: NEEV

* * *

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**GARRETT**

* * *

Garrett felt weary to the bone.

It had been days since Cassain had sent out Gael's demands to the throne, yet there had been no reply. Even so, Altara was preparing for war.

Ser Cedric, Kane and Garrett had ridden out to all four corners of Blackmore, carrying out his sister's recruitment campaign; those who had once not been allowed to join the Altaran Army had now enlisted – the poor, the criminals and the hungry.

Garrett had tried to persuade Gael that this method of recruitment would only lead to men becoming loyal to their generals and not to Blackmore or Gael, but she had refused to listen.

"I need soldiers," she'd demanded, stubbornly. "And I don't care who they're loyal to."

Garrett was now sat on his horse on a small hill just outside the city gates; watching as almost 3,000 men poured into Altara – ready to be trained into soldiers.

"Stable boys, thieves, inn keepers," said Cedric from beside him, as they watched people travel down the road below them. "These are no soldiers."

"These are no men loyal to the Lady of their Lands, either," murmured Garrett. "I fear she could have made a better choice if she'd bought 3,000 sell-swords instead. At least then she could have guaranteed their faith with gold. What can we buy these men's faith with? Nothing."

"They will get food and shelter plenty in Altara," Ser Cedric pointed out. "Many of these men will not have had that luxury before."

"And on the battlefield? When food is low, disease rife, and they watch as their friends are gutted beside them?" asked Garrett, bitterly. "What will keep them facing their foe with a brave heart then?"

"Your sister rules with a firm hand," his cousin reassured him. "If anything that will keep them in line."

Garrett had to concede that was true. Gael_ had_ grown harder ever since her declaration of war.

Only a few days ago a sea merchant had been brought before her who'd attempted to sell to the Crown despite her ban on trading.

"They were offering triple for Blackmore salt and rock, my Lady," the man had begged. Gael had threatened to hang him.

Luckily Cassain had convinced her to make an example of the man by stripping him of his ship and exiling him from Blackmore. No trader had dared approach King's Landing since.

Garrett had often feared that coming to rule at such a young age had caused Gael to continue to rule with her heart and not her head. She'd only been fifteen at their mother's passing, but she had been surrounded by advisors – good, level-headed men. She'd learnt to listen and she'd definitely learnt to rule.

But Garrett wished that he'd acted quickly after his mother's death. Gael _had _only been fifteen and he'd been twenty-seven. He wished he'd had the will and the foresight to move forwards and attempt to change some of the Gods-blinded traditions that the Houses always insisted on keeping to; particularly that of the Blackmore's insistence that only a female rule.

And it had also emerged years ago that Gael was barren, leaving his own daughter, Niamh as her one, and only heir. But Niamh was just six, and Garrett feared Gael would not live out the war.

Who would rush in to fill the power vacuum she left in her place? Cassain, as steward, certainly had a right – but so did he and Byrde.

"You worry too much, my friend," said Cedric, clapping him on the shoulder as he caught sight of Garrett's face, "You – is that _Byrde_?"

Garrett turned to look and saw his younger brother riding towards Altara's gates amongst the walking men. He was covered in gore and filth, the sword that hung at his waist was muddied, and the clothes that he was wearing were ripped and singed. Really, he looked _worse_ than any other man beside him.

"Damn it, he's supposed to be a _Lord_," swore Garrett, riding down the hill towards him. Byrde caught his eye and weaved out of the precession, approaching Garrett at the side of the road with two other men on horseback behind him.

"Ah, brother," he grinned, "you look characteristically _grim _today."

Garrett ignored him. "Who's this?" he asked, looking firstly at the man on Byrde's right, who was dressed in fine clothing of a light blue material, and then at the rope that bound his hands and attached his horse to Byde's.

"A reunion present for our sister," he quipped, "it's been – what – four months?"

"One year," replied Garrett, flatly, and then nodded at the dark haired man. "He looks like a Lord."

"That's because he probably _is_ one."

The handsome, older man merely watched them with faint amusement about his mouth and Garrett's mistrust for him grew.

"You may find our sister, and Altara, different to what you remember, Byrde" he said. "Come. She wants to see you."

"She can't bloody _summon _me whenever she damn well pleases," Byrde grumbled, never the less kicking his horse into a walk and following his brother into the city.

Garrett's lips twitched, but he said nothing.

* * *

They had to go through several gates to make it into the center of Altara, but when they got there, they found it busier than Garrett could ever remember.

Men were already training in the sandpits - the sound of clashing swords and yells filling the air - and others milled about in the main encampment near the Fort of Cobblers. Crowds separated as Garrett and Cedric rode through in their shining armor and deep black cloaks that hung off of one shoulder, but several cast glances at Byrde and Garse and their Rangers uniform, seemingly unsure of their position in the Blackmore hierarchy. The captive Byrde had called Carrick Bain was looking around him at Altara with an unreadable expression on his face.

As the gained higher ground on their way to Queen's Fort Garrett could see over the city walls to the sea of white tents that had been erected outside of Altaras's boundaries, the sheer vastness of which took Garrett's breath away.

"I've never seen Altara so ready for war," Byrde muttered, riding up beside Garrett. "Or full of so many people."

"The city was built for battle," Garrett replied, shrugging. "Not to be some rich man's playground like other city's in the Seven Kingdom's I could name."

Byrde snorted.

At the base of the steps to Queen's Fort they dismounted their horses. Garse muttered something about a pint at an inn and Ser Cedric arranged for a guard to form to take Carrick Bain to the prison cells until a time when Byrde would be able to oversee his Questioning.

His brother watched the man get led away with a frown on his face. "He's a Lord alright," Byrde muttered, "I've just got no bloody idea what he's doing burning his house down and killing three men."

"That's why you arrested him?"

He nodded, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. "I've got half a mind to go and question him now."

"No. Gael needs you."

Byrde shot him a look. "Do you know what she wants from me?"

Garrett shook his head and began to climb the stairs. "How are your Rangings?"

Byrde's face turned uncharacteristically serious. "We're encountering too many Clann-men for my peace of mind. It wouldn't bother me much except their definitely scouters. They're looking for something South of the woods and its bringing them closer to the towns and villages."

"Can you handle it?"

"Not for much longer we can't…and with a war coming…" Byrde dropped off into uneasy silence. "We need all the men we can get, and Gael's going to want my Rangers for this army she's building."

"So convince her not to use them."

Byrde shot him a look. "Have you ever tried to convince Gael to do something she doesn't want to do? Bloody son of a dog. This is going to be a hateful job."

They reached the top of the steps and guards signaled for the door to be opened.

It was massive - solid oak - and at least a meter or two thick. No man could push it open.

There was a rumbling sound as gears on the other side of the door began to turn, and inch by inch; the door began to open inwards.

The two men entered.

Inside the citadel was more open area, except this time there was no grass on the ground but wide grey flagstones that echoed with Byrde and Garret's footsteps. Around them were great stone pillars that held up an arched white-stone bridge that connected with the top of the surrounding walls and the middle of Queen's Fort. Two similar bridges spouted out of the left and right of the fort.

Garrett strode past a statue carved in the likeness of Vallore Blackmore – the second of his name and the man who designed Altara.

As a young boy, Garrett could remember Byrde being fascinated with the statues – desperate to join the ranks of men remembered through out their family's history, yearning for songs to be made of him. For a long time it looked like he – not Garrett – would be the one to embrace his Lordship. But then their father had died in battle, and a statue of him had been made and little Byrde had realized that songs were only sung about you when you were dead – and what good was glory to a man when he was dead? Small wonder Byrde so vehemently denied his ties to the Blackmore name and joined the Rangers.

But Garrett did notice the small gleam in his brother's eyes as his gaze lingered on the statues surrounding them.

As for Garrett, he believed in the makings of his own destiny. Like Byrde he didn't wholly embrace the name of his forefathers though he saw the importance in duty and honor. He opposed the symbol of monarchy and all that it stood for, and hated Gael's idea of 'bettering' Westeros by usurping one King, and presumably declaring herself the new Queen. But he kept his mouth shut on his opposition to that whole notion of Kings and Queens – fool thoughts like that would get you enemies in every house.

It was with irony then, he reflected, that the one who most wholly embraced her name and the people that she stood for out of all his siblings was Gael – who had just renounced her name and claimed the Targaryan one.

_It's a mad world we live in_, he thought to himself.

His sister was waiting for them once more in the highest hall of Queen's Fort. When they entered she was intent on her conversation with Cassan Cassain at the table, but she stood, smiling as they entered.

"Byrde," she grinned, "you look like a beggar man."

Byrde scowled mockingly. "I ride day and night to get to you and the most you can do is insult my appearance?" He never the less embraced his sister and he and Garrett sat opposite her at the table.

"I'll call for some food," she said, "and you'll have to get changed before we ride out."

"Ride out?" asked Garrett, thinking for one horrible moment that there a battle had already started somewhere. "Why?"

"King Robert's sent the eunuch Varys for peace negotiations," explained Cassain gruffly.

"And I don't want him coming anywhere near Altara and see our army or get a good look at the layout of our city," added Gael, tapping the table with one finger. "At the moment our advantage is that they have no idea what we're going to do, and I don't want to lose that."

"You'll have to be careful, my Lady," Cassain cautioned her, "even if you don't want to reveal anything, Varys has cunning and a tongue like poisoned honey. Be on your guard."

"I will," she assured her advisor. "But I _do _want to intimidate him. I plan to meet his consort out at the hills by the sea port of Quain."

He nodded. "Very well, my Lady."

A servant approached the table with a plate of cheeses and meats and bread and another set a steaming bowl of soup before Byrde who let out an appreciative moan at the food and shot the serving girl a quick wink.

Garrett picked a crust of bread apart with his fingers as he turned to Gael, "Bard and I managed to gather a force of three thousand men from outlying towns and villages. They're willing…but they're no soldiers," he warned her.

"So train them as best you can."

He sighed, pushing down his frustration. "You can turn wool into yarn, sister, he said, "but you cannot change a man's nature. Some of them are not fighters."

"And you can't use the Rangers to add to your numbers," Byrde interjected, suddenly and forcefully.

Gael raised an eyebrow in amusement and turned to him. "I wasn't planning to."

Byrde seemed slightly taken aback. "…well…good…The Clann's are getting restless, whatever pact father made with them dissolved when he died. You're going to have another war much closer to home if you don't do something about them."

"The pact father made with Prastagus passed down to me to renew at his death," said Gael calmly. "It has not dissolved."

Byrde stared. "Well whatever you did it's not worked because they're coming further South every day."

"Of course they are. Like you said they're restless," she hesitated. "I promised them land."

"You _what_?" Byrde yelled. "You promised the savages land. OUR land?!"

"No of course not," she snapped, irritation flashing in her grey eyes. "I promised them the land we conquered in this war if they swore our swords to us."

The table was silent. "And how do suppose to cement such and alliance," Garrett said, recovering from his surprise. Internally though, he could feel the anger steadily swelling with in him. _Gael meant to conquer _and _rule_ – as if she didn't have enough enemies.

She suddenly seemed slightly nervous. "Marriage," she admitted. "With one of Prastagus's children."

Byrde choked on the spoonful of soup he'd just put into his mouth, and burst out laughing. "Oh, I'd pay to see that sister! Prastagus only has daughters."

"I didn't say it was me I was marrying off."

Byrde seemed comically confused for a second, and then blanched. "You can't be serious."

She spread her hands. "Garrett's already married, and they wanted an alliance with the direct members of the Blackmore family."

"I'm not doing it," said Byrde, firmly.

"Fine. Then I'll be needing your Rangers for the war since we're not going to have enough soldiers," she snapped, annoyed.

His mouth worked for a moment but no words came out. "This is blackmail," he accused, finally.

"It's my way of getting what I want."

"Men'll envy you, laddie," said Cassain, attempting to reassure him. "Prastagus's daughters are supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all the Clanns."

"They also run round in blue war paint," Byrde shot back, petulantly. "The woman'll gut me in my sleep – when is this supposed to _happen _anyway?"

"You'll ride out to the Northern woods once we're done meeting with Varys," said Gael. "I'll send Elayne to represent me at the ceremony – I can't leave Altara whilst we're on the brink of war."

Garrett watched as Byrde gave an obvious shudder at the thought of the darkened woods on their northern boarders and couldn't help the amusement that washed through him.

"It could be worse Byrde."

"How," his brother demanded. "How could this be _any_ worse?"

"Enough." Said Gael sharply, but not unkindly. "We must ride out now to intercept Varys before he reaches Altara."

* * *

In the end, a party of almost twenty rode to the hills just east of the Sea-sky bay with Gael. They stood on a hill, the banners of Blackmore raised; Garrett and several of the men wearing black cloaks in the color of their sigil.

Gael stood out front on her white mare, Cassain and Garrett flanking her either side. Byrde and Garse stood out awkwardly in their dark clothing, but looked all the more deadly than common soldiers with the extensive weaponry strapped to their persons. A little behind Gael were her cousins and Uncle – Kane, Leon and Cedric, and next to them the only other woman in the group, Gael's ward, Elayne Tully. The General-Commander, Bard, stood protectively near his ruler with the two bannermen, and the rest of the men were an assortment of the city guard and higher-ranking members of the Altaran Army.

The sea could be heard in the distance and the sun was high in the sky, turning the rolling fields of Blackmore into a golden haze.

They stood in silence for some time before Garse called out, "there – to the West!"

Garrett followed the Ranger's directions and looked to his right. Making their way down one of the stone-paved main roads Gael had had built to improve the speed of travel through the land, was Varys consort.

It was made up of several guards in gleaming armor and a plush carriage pulled by two horses. The carriage wouldn't make it up the hill to where they were stood, Garrett realized, and he told Gael so.

She swore, and muttered something under her breath about noble dignitaries and their comfort before turning to face the group gathered behind her.

"Cassan, Garrett, Will" (one of the bannermen) she called, "come with me."

They left the others on the hill and rode down to the road – the black and brown banner of Blackmore flapping in the wind.

Varys precision did not stop until Gael rode out in front of them, her horse dancing nervously on its feet. "Halt," she cried out.

At her appearance one of the men began to half draw his sword, but Garrett pulled his horse up next to Gael and touched the hilt of his own. "I would not draw that weapon," he said, his voice ice. "In front of the Lady."

The man reassessed Gael, seeing the fine white cloak she wore and the gold about her neck and grunted, pulling his hand away from his sword.

The carriage gave a creek and a sway and suddenly the door was thrown open.

"You'll have to forgive my men, Lady Blackmore," said Varys as he stepped out, "they're more inclined to take a head when words could save one."

Garrett regarded the man with distaste.

He was plump, bald and dressed in a luxurious purple silk robe – clothing hardly meant for traveling – making him stood out awkwardly in the rugged Blackmore countryside.

"Lord Varys," said Gael nodding graciously. There was a hint of steel in her voice, however, when she said, "a pity the King could not come to bargain for peace with in his kingdom."

"The King had pressing business to attend in the North my Lady," apologized Varys, "he sent me in his stead."

_Business more pressed than war? _Garrett thought, beginning to understand Gael's hate for the man – that, and the fact he'd killed their sister.

"I'm sure," Gael replied, coolly.

"My apologies if I sound forward, my Lady, but I didn't expect to encounter you, ah, _here_. We were making for Altara."

"And my apologies if I sound forward, Varys, but I thought it better we have this discussion away from my capital that it busy preparing for war."

Garrett noticed Cassain visibly wince out of the corner of his eye. Gael had never been one to tiptoe round a subject.

Varys shook his head sadly, but the action seemed strangely insincere to Garrett. "The young are always so eager for glory and bloodshed – my Lady if you had _truly _seen war, you would not be so quick to start one."

"I declare war to usurp an incompetent King who ruined my land and killed my sister," Gael snapped. "Nobody goes to war for the sake of war."

Varys sighed. "Then I fear my plea for peace will be fruitless. However, I will do my best." He turned and indicated for one of the soldiers to dismount his horse. With a little help, Varys clambered on, looking even more comically out of place.

"I guess you intend for us to ride somewhere, my Lady – though I must warn you, a man of my age and girth can only go for so long and so far astride a horse these days."

"It is only a short distance," Gael promised, "and we can converse as we ride there."

One of Varys men stayed behind with the carriage as they set off.

Gael led them up a hill, throwing Garrett a significant glance as Varys prattled on about the beauty of the surrounding land, and his journey to them.

She finally cut across him as they reached Byrde and the others. "My Lord, I would appreciate it if we spoke frankly. What exactly is the Crown proposing to divert the House of Blackmores cries for war?"

The man smiled, as if he knew a great secret she didn't. "Tell me what is it you fear, Gael Blackmore? Many men fear control, enslavement – death," Garrett saw Byrde shift uncomfortably atop of his horse, "but then again, you are no man, are you my Lady?"

For a long time, everybody was quiet. Garrett watched as his sister stared out over the hills for a while until she spoke eventually, "I fear for the safety of my people and the destruction of everything my forefathers worked for, my Lord."

"Noble, but you misunderstand me, my Lady. Take away the title, the obligation, the seat of power – what is it that _you _fear."

Gael grit her jaw, something flashing in her eyes. Her head jerked round to face Varys. "This is not peace negotiations," she snapped.

And Varys' would never know – but Garrett did – what Gael's deepest fear was.

Ever since Garrett could remember his sister had feared magic – talk of the spirits or warlocks. Even when her wet nurse her told her the stories as a child, she had hidden under her bed and had dreadful nightmares at night. Garrett could never understand this fear that had taken root in her – maybe it was fear of something more powerful than man itself, maybe fear of the intangible and the unknown. But it was primitive, buried inside of her, and judging by her reaction to Varys, it had never left.

"I apologize, my Lady," said Varys, bowing his head, "I merely wished to illustrate that we all have fear. A war renews these terrors in us all."

Garrett felt his lip curl. _A likely story_, he thought, but marveled at his sister's regained composure.

"Come, Varys – I will show you why we Blackmore's do not fear war."

She led him further across the land, East, over the ridge of a large hill until all the horsemen overlooked the sea port of Quain. They found themselves at the edge of steep, white cliffs and miles below them, at the end of a wide yet relatively short river, was the sea-town Gael had spoken of. But it was not that she was showing Varys.

"The locals call it the Sky Bridge," she said, smugness in her voice as she gestured with her hand.

The man's composure momentarily slipped – his face briefly freezing in place. Before them, linking the two cliffs either side of the mouth of the river, was the largest bridge ever built in Westeros.

It was made out of white stone, reaching almost two hundred feet into the air so that it really did look like it could touch the sky. The pillars that held it up were gently arched and in each arch there was space for eight – no, _ten _– ships to sail into port side by side.

It had originally been built so that soldiers could travel down the coast easily, with out having to veer in land round the river or use rafts to get across it. Also, if invaders tried to come by sea, it made it relatively easy for soldiers to pick off oncoming ships and protect the river and Quain.

"Whilst the rest of Westeros lies idle, sitting in their grand old haunts, Blackmore is constantly rebuilding itself, constantly improving – moving forward," Gael explained, pride coloring her voice. "Our engineers and builders are given the highest praise that your knights might receive elsewhere. 'We are the gears of war', Lord Varys, and those gears have been turning for a long time now. The drums of battle were rumbling here long before Robert killed my sister. We are prepared, and now, we are ready to fight." She turned and eyed him fiercely. "I will not heed talks for peace, Varys. Go back to King's Landing and tell Robert Baratheon when he gets back from the North that war is upon him."

* * *

**A/N **I know all the character's are very centralized in one area now, all following pretty much the same story line, but I promise everything will start to split up and everyone will be getting their own individual plots pretty soon.

There are _still _new characters POV's to be introduced as well, but I think next chapter will be from Ned's perspective.

Thank you for all your lovely reviews – especially **LadyKatherine29**! – your words really gave me a moral boost.

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	7. Chapter 6

**DEFIANCE **

* * *

**EDDARD**

* * *

It did not take long for Ned to notice that something was amiss with the King's party. Their stay in Winterfell thus far had been pleasant, but an unspoken tension resided in his guests.

Robert was apt to long moments of moody silence and the Queen's face seemed to be cut out of rock these days for all the emotion it showed.

Ned had heard Joffrey boasting to Sansa one night at the feast that his father might yet let him ride to battle at his Uncle's side and it was then that Ned knew something was definitely wrong.

He had planned to confront Robert to gain the truth of the matter on their first hunting trip.

Ned had never expected the Queen would be the one to accost him first.

He stood alone in one of the halls of Winterfell, waiting for Robert; but when the door creaked open and he turned to greet his friend, it was Cersei Lannister who slipped into the room.

Her beauty seemed to radiate light in the dimly lit hall – her golden hair almost glowing.

"Lord Stark," she murmured, bowing her head.

"My Queen," he returned, puzzled.

There was small love between the Lannister's and himself, he knew. The Queen had never so much as spoken a word to him unless courtesy demanded it. And now she was here.

Cersei seemed to hesitate for a moment, standing a few feet away from Ned. Her head tilted to the side, regarding him carefully before she spoke, "I trust Robert has already requested that you be his new Hand."

"And what of it?" asked Ned, instantly defensive.

She smiled thinly. "You walk blindly into a vicious snakes' pit, Lord Stark. One you are woefully under-informed of…" Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to raise, though it was not cold in the room.

"What have I not been told?"

"My brother, Jaime, was betrothed to marry Caera Blackmore but weeks ago" Cersei informed him, disdain evident in her voice. "A stupid but pretty little thing who looked very much like some Targaryan bastard. Robert drank too much at her wedding feast and killed the girl."

Ned felt himself stumble – as if he had been subjected to a great physical blow.

He knew of Robert's hatred for the Targaryan's…but to kill an innocent young _girl_.

"Why has the King not been brought to justice," he demanded, "why –"

"- because he is the _King_," spat Cersei. "He stands above justice."

Ned scrabbled for some sort of bearing. "Why am I only just hearing of this?" he demanded, furiously.

"Because it benefited many to cover up her death" Cersei said, coolly. "…I was glad to hear that Robert had killed her – fool that he is – I detested the girl. So did Jaime. But the news was leaked…it would have been, eventually, I suppose. The Blackmore's were not best pleased to find out how Caera had met her end."

_My father may let me ride into battle with Uncle Jaime_, the Lannister boy had said, Ned recalled, _we will squash his enemies until they are nothing but earth in the ground_.

"War," he said. "…they declared war on Robert."

Cersei nodded. "The threat of the Blackmore's grows ever stronger, like a growing storm on our horizon."

Ned swore under his breath. "Why have you come to me with this?"

He did not trust that Cersei Lannister had shared this news with him merely for his own benefit.

The woman smiled. "Being frank, it is because I wish for you to stay in the North, Lord Stark. With your decline, the King would then pass the position for Hand on to my brother, Jaime."

"And he would be surrounded by Lannisters," spat Ned. "Your brother has killed one King – why not another?"

"Better Robert be surrounded by Lannisters who want his thrown than Blackmores who want his blood," retaliated Cersei, stiffly. "Stay out of this war Eddard Stark. Stay in the North with your honor and noble words of justice – there is no place for them in King's Landing as Robert's Hand."

"I am bound by duty –"

"Are you blind as well as deaf?" snarled Cersei, her green eyes flashing. "Your King is a murderer and yet you continue to swear allegiance to him. Listen to me very carefully: you are safe in the North. For once, do not think of your honor, Stark, think of your own hide, and how much safer it will be behind your own walls surrounded by your own men."

"Is that a threat?" asked Ned, deadly quiet.

"It is a promise," she replied, her voice equally soft and vicious. "Take Robert's position as Hand, and you will find no allies in the House of Lannister."

With that, she turned on her heel swiftly and left the room – leaving Ned with only his thoughts.

* * *

He relayed the news to Catelyn that night in their chambers.

The fire was lit, and Ned stared at the crackling embers as he talked. His wife said very little – only listened intently - but he was careful to keep his back to her.

They had just finished their lovemaking and Catelyn was still naked on the bed with the furs pooled round her feet. She no longer possessed the young woman's body she had; bearing five children had taken its toll, but he would never have her any other way than she was now. So intent on his problem's. So open to him. He could not bare the sight of her beauty because it somehow made the decision that would have to be made all the more harder.

"I did not think we would see war again in my life time," murmured Catelyn, once he had finished. "Another seems too cruel."

"Peace never lasts," Ned reminded her, turning. "But we will not be touched by it in the North, God's willing."

"You do not mean to become Robert's Hand."

It was not a question, but he replied anyway. "No."

"He will wonder why you do not join him," she cautioned him. "And with war coming, in time he will grow suspicious that the North's allegiance is not with the Crown."

"Robert is like a brother to me," Ned said, stubbornly. "He knows that."

"But this is not about alliances between people, Ned," Catelyn said, wrapping a fur round her like a cloak and walking forwards to gather his hands in hers. "It is about alliances between Houses. If war is coming, the Stark's will be expected to choose a side – for better or for worse."

He looked down at her small hands encasing his much larger ones, and then his eyes met her face and he pushed a stray lock of auburn hair away from her eyes. "Are you so eager to send me away again?" he whispered. "I left you once Catelyn – I do not plan on doing so again."

Catelyn's mind visibly filled with memories of Ned bringing back a young bastard child after a year away at war. "We did not share the love then that we do now," she replied, firm. "I love you, but you must do your duty, Ned. Give no cause for the King to doubt you – our House. If you become the Hand I trust in the Gods that I will see you again."

"A wolf never enters the sleeping lions' den."

Catelyn's mouth quirked. "Better Robert has a barking dog at his side than a sleeping lion."

Ned did not smile, however. The threat of the Lannister's troubled him more greatly than he would reveal to her.

"Sleeping lion's do not stay sleeping forever."

"Then Robert must have men he can trust at his side when they wake." Catelyn insisted. And then her face grew soft. She stroked his cheek, as if attempting to smooth out the lines of stress and wariness she found there. "Go to King's Landing. Right his wrongs. Repair his mistakes. It does not have to come to war – not again. And if it does, you make a strong and noble leader."

"The Blackmore's are good people," said Ned looking troubled. "Asgon and his son Garrett fought by my and Robert's side at the Battle of the Trident. Robert killed their sister. How can I fight for the side that I fear is not right?"

But that was not wholly true, Ned reminded himself. Asgon was long dead, and Garrett had been but a young man of eighteen during the battle: Ned had seen very little of him then. He knew nothing of the other two siblings and had only seen the youngest, Caera, once, and fleetingly, on a trip to Kings Landing. He and Catelyn had once talked of a possible marriage between Robb and the eldest girl – Gael – until they fully realized Blackmore tradition. The woman ruled. If she and Robb had married, one of them would have had to choose to relinquish rule of their kingdom to live with the other. He was glad they had not moved forward with their planning: the Blackmore girl had painted a target on her own back and Ned would not be surprised if she was dead before the year was out.

But did he really owe Robert so much that he would be the one to lead her destruction as the Hand?

And, a voice whispered in his head, what if he chose the wrong side? What if the Blackmore's over-threw the Baratheon's? He could be signing his own death sentence taking Robert's damned position - bringing the wrath of both the Lannister's and the Blackmore's down on him.

Seven Hells, but he wished that Robert had forgotten that he was in the North – Southron business was a mess.

"You forget that the Blackmore's are the Tully's closest allies: my father and brother will be forced to aid them in battle," said Catelyn, sadly. "I hope for their sake this rebellion is squashed before it begins."

Ned had not thought of that. "Isn't Edmure's girl Gael Blackmore's ward?"

Catelyn eye's sparked and she withdrew her hands from his. "Gods, yes!" she murmured. "I best write to Edmure and tell him to get Elayne home as soon as he can – the news of war may not have reached them as fast as it did us." She looked searchingly into his eyes for a moment. "You are making the right choice in accepting Robert's proposition, my love."

"There does not feel like there is a right choice in this blasted mess," Ned grumbled. "But I cannot leave Robert surrounded by Lannisters amongst this folly – even if he did bring it upon himself…"

There was a sudden and sharp knock on the door and Ned and Catelyn both turned to face the source of the sound. "What is it?" called Ned.

"My Lord, Maester Luwin is without and begs urgent audience," came the voice from the other side of the door.

* * *

**A/N **And you know what happens next.

Well done to _**LadyKatherine29 **_for spotting the Celtic reference – as George R.R Martin did, I have drawn several plot ideas from certain points in history, so see if you guys can spot them all over the course of this fic!

Also thank you very much to _**StephyCoCo89 **_– I do try to stick to the general tone of the books.

Please **review**.

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


	8. Chapter 7

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**GAEL**

* * *

As the door opened Gael straightened herself in her high backed chair.

Holding court was not something she would have once grown impatient with, but it had been almost a week since she had sent Varys away and there was no whisper of Robert's reply. Doing such mundane tasks at this seemed trivial when she could almost hear the rolling thunder of war.

She worried that they would be the ones that would have to have to push forward and attack first in an attempt to provoke a response. But sudden attacks like those did not inspire others to aid their cause – it would be best that war was announced officially so that there was time for other Houses to choose sides.

Gael cast a glance out of the window.

Stannis had backed them. The soldiers he had sent her would arrive any day now.

The Tully's, too, had sworn oaths.

Gael was gambling that the Stark's would perhaps join the fray if they did not freeze up in the North first. Talk told that Lord Stark was friends with Robert Baratheon, but that he was also an honorable man.

He could sway either way, Gael decided.

Through the court doors, the next man to be trialed entered the room – assured in by four guards.

"My Lady," one of the guards's said, dropping to one knee at the center of the room, "my Lord First General."

Garrett stood at her right, clothed not in his armor but in his usual long, grey coat with his sword strapped at his side.

Garrett's sword was unusual. Many men carried thick, heavy swords – made for hacking and slashing and taking off men's heads. But Garrett's sword was thin, _elegant_. It would not take off a man's limb, but it would slip between his rib cage and pierce his heart as easily as a breath if it got the chance.

Gael and her brother both inclined their heads at the guard in turn and he stood. "I present to you Carrick Bain, my Lady."

He moved and Gael was allowed her first sight of the man Byrde had bought her. Two weeks in her prison cells underneath Queen's Fort had not diminished Carrick Bain's rugged good-look's, but his peculiarly rich clothing was soiled and brown with dirt so that Gael could not tell what the original color had been. He was maybe a few years older than her brother, Garrett – forty? – and his hands were clamped together in metal cuffs.

"Why did you kill three men, Carrick Bain?" Garrett asked.

A wry smile flashed across the man's face as quick as a bird's shadow, and the guard spoke for him. "The Questioners could not extract any information from him, my Lady."

"But it wasn't for lack of trying," Bain commented, rolling up his sleeves so that she could see the burns branded onto his arms.

She ignored him. "Will you confess the circumstances of your crime to the Lady?" she asked.

"No, I will not."

Black humor colored her voice, almost despite herself. "Are you so eager to face the executioners axe, master Bain?"

"It is a quicker death than I will find elsewhere, my Lady, I assure you."

One of the guard's stepped forward. "Forgive me, my Lady, but we do have someone who will vouch for the man's crimes."

Gael accepted and a young woman was brought forward. She was tall, dressed in a villagers clothing with a scarf round her neck.

"What is your name?"

"Alanna, my Lady," she said, in a small voice.

"What can you tell us about this man, Alanna," asked Garrett. Gael kept her gaze fixed on Bain, and thought she could detect a flicker of unease in his eyes. It was gone before she could be sure, however.

The girl took a deep breath. "Master Bain came to Whitebridge but two years ago," she said. "He was very rich and had a nobleman's baring and appearance. He bought a small household on the edge of the village…" The woman chewed on her lip. "He gave us very little trouble, my Lady, though we were sure he was hiding from some business elsewhere. He bedded a few woman over the years, but otherwise –"

"You're vouching for the man's innocence?" interrupted Garrett, impatient.

The woman shook her head quickly. "No, m'lord," she said, and Gael noticed how she kept on shooting scared looks at Bain, keeping close to the guards. "He took me into his house, once, and it was filled with these beautiful…terrible instruments –"

"-They were my _inventions_, you fool girl," snapped Bain, but he was quickly silenced by a guard.

"I didn't know what they were," she said, her voice shaking. "He got drunk and I was scared and I wanted to leave but he got angry. He grabbed my face and told me to watch and then…then he made fire."

Gael felt as if something had been severed with in her. She felt her stomach drop, and her hands gripped the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles were white.

"What?"

The woman was now tearful. "Men had been disappearing for months – we thought it was the Clannsmen, but when I tried to run he said he had to burn me, too, like he'd burnt the others. That I couldn't see. I couldn't know."

Carrick Bain's face was white. The woman wept openly now. "I begged and pleaded and he let me go, but he said if I mentioned it to anyone Whitebridge would burn."

_Burn. _

Gael had had nightmares of Blackmore burning to ashes for as long as she'd had its seat of power. The arrival of this man made those dreams seem acutely prophetic.

"Take him down to the prison cells and torture him until he talks," Gael demanded. "If there's one sorcerer on Blackmore land there will be others."

"No, damn it!" yelled Bain, as the guards moved forwards to drag him out. "You said you'd kill me!"

"Death would be too kind," Gael spat. She felt very cold and very afraid, like a child.

"The insipid quim's _lying_, burn you."

"A poor choice of words to gain your freedom," replied Garrett, wryly. "Take him away."

"No!" Bain roared - and the ferocity of his bellow caused the guard's to falter nervously and take a step back from him. "I am not what she says I am," he said, striding towards Gael.

She saw Garrett draw his sword from the corner of her eye and Gael stood as he got closer, reaching up her sleeve to where she kept her dagger.

Bain halted a few feet away and procured from his pocket a small pouch. He opened it, and tipped its contents onto the floor before him. It was some kind of gritty black powder and Bain crouched down, picking a little up and letting it run through his fingers. "Charcoal and sulfur, my lady…" he said his voice slightly hoarse.

He strode to the side of the room and retrieved a torch from a bracket on the wall. Gael tensed further and she heard a fearful murmur ripple round the guards.

"…with the right presence of heat," continued Carrick Bain, almost feverishly, "will…ignite."

He dropped the torch and as Garrett rushed forwards the black powder caught fire with a _bang_. Several of the men cried out and Gael took a step backwards.

However, after the initial panic everybody paused. There was a charred mark on the stone floor where the powder had been and the air smelt of smoke but otherwise, nobody had been hurt.

"This is not witchcraft or magic or socerey, Gael Blackmore," said Carrick Bain, warily, "this is science. Like your bridges and your medicine and your astrology."

Gael was silent for a long time. Her face gave none of her thoughts away, though the paleness of her skin still lingered from the remnants of her fear. "Why do you seek death so readily?" she asked, eventually.

"I was Tywin Lannister's advisor at Casterly Rock as a young man. He respected my mind and kept me close, but his respect for me made me arrogant and foolish. Joanna Lannister wished to bed me and – stupidly – I allowed her to. She became pregnant and gave the child over to me to care for, telling her husband the babe had died at childbirth. I raised my son for eight years. Alas, the bitch confessed her sin on her death-bead and Tywin had him killed and I fled to your lands. I planned and schemed take revenge on the Lannister's, but that candle burned to the quick long ago. Now, my lady, all I wish for is death. I have murdered ten men to ensure I was not found here – there, I have told you shamelessly. By your laws, I must now be executed."

"Hand me your sword," Gael said, turning to Garrett.

"-Gael-"

"Do it."

He obliged, and she gripped it tightly. She had never held a sword before, and the balance of it felt odd.

Never the less, she turned back to face Carrick Bain and saw the haunted look in his eyes as he remembered the son he had lost. She regretted her decision.

"Kneel," she instructed him. The room was very quiet.

He did as she instructed, bowing his head in preparation for the blow.

She thought, for a second, how strange it was for a man's life to rest in her hands and then she lifted the sword and brought it down – touching each shoulder once.

"Rise," she murmured. "Ser Carrick Bain."

There was a collective intake of breath. A moment where disbelief hung tangibly in the air.

His brown eyes met her grey ones. "Why?" he asked, simply.

"Because you are far too valuable to my cause, Ser Carrick, for me to merely allow you to slip through my fingertips," she replied. "Your inventions and this…black powder…will be valuable to the war. You will do my bidding…and I will give you permission to die when I consider your service to me fulfilled."

He was quiet for a moment. "I will hold you to that promise, my Lady."

"I give you my word – now rise, Ser Carrick Bain."

But he remained on one knee for a moment – long enough for him to take her hand and kiss the spot of white skin just below her knuckles. "It is not every day that a ruler will make a wandering vagabond and a murderer a knight, my Lady Blackmore. History will remember such a woman," he murmured, as his lips left her skin. "For ill or for good."

Gael struggled to keep her voice from shaking as the man she had knighted finally rose to stand before her.

"Get this man fresh clothes and allocate him new chambers – a cell is hardly the living quarters of a knight of Blackmore."

One of the guards seemed to hesitate before nodding. "Of course, m'lady."

Carrick was escorted out of the hall under dramatically different circumstances to when he entered it.

Knowing that all eyes were on her, Gael attempted to sit back in her chair in a way that did not reveal how tired she suddenly was.

Her whole body felt weak and she tried to remember how long it had been since she'd last slept. A day? Two?

There had been so many things to worry about: demands that had had to be met. After the imposed trading ban, Blackmore had been left to supply food for itself. They'd underestimated how little food their land held and how many men had been withdrawn from farming and hunting to become soldiers. Woman had had to take over jobs where men could not, the exotic foods from the West were no longer seen in Blackmore halls.

The gears of war were turning, but it was slowly now - forced forward with more effort.

The presence of Carrick Bain and the revelation he had brought with him soothed Gael somewhat. It was good to know that they, at least, would have a surprise up their sleeves like Kings Landing undoubtedly would.

"You made an unusual choice there, my Lady." Cassain said, rubbing his beard agitatedly as he walked up to stand next to her.

"You're not going to condemn me for it?" she asked, teasing.

"Gods no, I've learnt you can be more mule-headed than you were ten years ago when you make your mind up about something…although," he hesitated, his smile fading. "Tread lightly now, m'lady. Word will spread that you made a man convicted of murder a knight. Some will not respect you for that decision. Others will think they can make the same choices as that man did and walk free – unpunished."

"I've long been aware that my actions have consequences, Cassain," she said, more sharply than she would have intended.

He merely bowed. "Of course, but it is my job to make you aware of those consequences."

Suddenly the door was thrust open. It took a split second for Gael to realize that the person entering the room was not a guard with another prisoner, but a man in a black cloak.

It took longer for Gael to realize he meant her harm.

Garrett moved almost instantly.

"PROTECT THE LADY!" he yelled, drawing his sword at the same time the cloaked man threw back his hood, revealing a face half covered in tattoos.

"DEATH TO THE FALSE DRAGON!" he roared.

A silver knife appeared in his hand and Gael stood from her chair quickly – and pain exploded in her right shoulder.

She looked down, mute with agony, to see the hilt of the knife protruding from her skin.

The room was spinning around her as she yanked the blade out, blood staining her white dress red. Vaguely, Gael was aware of Garrett taking the assassin's head off in a clean stroke, but then another black cloaked figure appeared in the room to take his place.

Bard was in front of her.

"You two," he said to Cassain and a guard before they could move to join the fray. "Come with me."

He picked Gael up as easily as if she weighed as much as a child and she cried out when the movement jolted her arm.

"Where…are you taking me?" she whispered, definitely beginning to feel sick.

"Somewhere safe," Bard replied, grimly.

They left the hall by a back door which opened onto a small, spiral stair case. Bard moved quickly down it, despite holding her in his arms.

"How did they get in," he demanded, angrily. "They shouldn't have been able to touch her!"

"They were trained assassins," said Cassain, gruffly – his voice coming from somewhere behind them. "Judging by the words they were sent by the Targaryan's."

"The Targaryan's are dead," Gael protested weakly.

"Apparently not my Lady," Cassain answered curtly, but she could distinctly hear the uneasiness in his voice.

She reached down the neck line of her dress to touch her wound, only to withdraw her hand and see it wet with her own blood. She moaned aloud.

"Is she going to live?" asked the guard, his voice echoing ominously in the stairwell.

"It was just a wound to the shoulder."

"Aye, but if it was a poison-soaked knife…" fretted Cassain.

"Fuck, don't think like that, man," Bard swore, angrily.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell which led onto a long corridor. As a child Gael had explored every part of Queen's Fort and she suddenly understood exactly where they were going. In the event of a siege, there was a safe-room in the bowels of the fort. She had often hid in it as a girl when she played with Byrde.

Then she had laughed and been happy. Visiting it now under such different circumstances was sobering.

"We're not under siege," she protested, weakly.

"There's only so much we can do against assassins of this skill, m'lady. You _will _be safe here."

There were soldiers placed on every corner of every corridor. When they finally made it to the chambers, they found the door to be of the same type as the one to Queen's Fort. Meters thick, with intricate locks.

As the door opened Gael's wound gave a particularly painful throb and she blacked out.

* * *

**A/N **Sorry this chapter took so long to write. I have exams coming up and I've been revising for those so…

Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	9. Chapter 8

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**GARRETT**

* * *

"Why hasn't she woken up?" Garrett demanded of Maester O'Neal.

After Gael had fallen unconscious and the assassins had been taken care of, they'd transferred her up to her chambers in the main tower. That had been two days ago, and there had been no signs of her coming round since.

The Maester insisted that the knife that had pierced her shoulder had not been poisoned, yet Gael had tossed and turned in her bed with out a sign of waking and her skin was constantly coated in a light sheen of sweat.

"The demons plague her mind, my Lord," O'Neal reassured Garrett as he sat by his sisters bed, her hand clasped in his. "It's nightmares…the stress of the past few weeks. It was to be expected. Especially in one so young –"

"Her age has nothing to do with it," Garrett snapped. But when he glanced at Gael, she looked younger than he had seen her, her face moon-pale and her usually pink lips almost as white as her skin. Garrett hated what was with in plain sight of all of them.

The plain truth that his sister had started a war, and now the stupid bitch barely looked like she could lead them through it.

_What have you done, Gael? _Garrett thought bitterly.

"It's been two days," he announced. "The country is at war. If she doesn't wake up, who's to lead us?"

He looked to Cahan Cassain, who sat in the corner of the lavishly furnished room by the open window. The old man characteristically had a pipe in his mouth. His brows were lowered over his eyes into a serious line and every now and then he'd blow a line of smoke out the window and into the night air (the Maester had feared the fumes would effect Gael's recovery.)

Garrett was no fool. He knew something had been troubling the steward ever since Gael had failed to awaken the morning after the attack. The absence of Byrde, also, had cast a shadow over Queen's Fort and left the general mood in Altara bleaker than ever.

News of the attack on Gael had spread through out the city, and there were troubled whispers that were steadily growing louder by the day among Garrett's soldiers. Worries over Gael's ability to win the war she'd started. Fears that the board of advisers to the ruler were trying to cover up her death. That their news that she was bed-bound was merely a lie.

The people loved Gael, and the more prolonged her absence grew, the more the unrest with in the city amplified.

Nobody had answered Garrett's question. The Maester was busy crumbling some sort of leaf into a bowl of steaming water, the scent of which was supposed to bring peace to Gael's dreams, and Cassain seemed to be paying more attention to his pipe than Garrett.

He did look up sharply, however, when Gael let out a loud moan, thrashing under her crisp white sheets until she'd kicked them fully off of her. Her skin was drenched in sweat and Garrett grimaced when he realized his sister had been stripped of her bed clothes and was clothed in nothing but the clean white cloth that bandaged the knife wound on her right shoulder.

Gael's dark haired servant, Esta, hurried forwards the moment Gael was uncovered and quickly pulled she sheets back over her until they modestly touched her neck.

"She is so restless, Maester," the young woman said, timidly. "What kind of nightmares could she possibly be having?"

"Only the Gods know, child," said O'Neal, solemnly, as he straightened up from his hunched position over the bowl and carried it over towards the bed, placing it near Gael's head. She stirred and moaned again as the fumes wafted over her, but did not wake.

Garrett swore, tearing his hand free from Gael's and standing abruptly. "Your potions are doing nothing, man," he yelled. "Our country is on the brink of war! Who will lead us if she cannot?"

"Tradition states –" grumbled Cassain round his pipe.

"I piss on the illogical _traditions _of our lands," raged Garrett, cutting over him. "Tradition states the next female Blackmore will take my sister's place. That's my daughter, Cassain! Niamh!"

"I am well aware –"

"She's of ten years! She cannot lead us to battle!"

Cassain stood from his seat also, quieting Garrett's tirade.

He spoke with out feeling as if reading from a manuscript he'd long since learnt by heart. "In an event such as this," the old man said, "if there is no female Blackmore heir that could legitimately take the mantle of the Lady, the Altaran army are deployed to prevent the general breakdown of order if our ruler is unfit to lead. Gael will be appraised as such if she fails to awaken by tomorrow evening."

Cassain paused, his face drawn and his voice wary. "As the First General of the Altaran army, this gives _you_ a portion of control over Blackmore; the rest falls to the Steward; myself…so to answer your question, Garrett. Who will lead our country when it is on the brink of war? Why...we will."

Garrett paused, stunned. The implications of what had just been said running through his mind. "How did I not know of this?" he demanded.

"Because you never asked. Because you never took interest in how to rule the Blackmore lands. Because, in the interest of our Lady's safety, this knowledge was not made public. How many generals and stewards not of Blackmore blood would have been able to claim the title of Ruler, had they known about this, Garrett? How many more assassination attempts would have been made on your sister's life – not just from enemies outside Altara's walls - but from with in?"

Garrett shook his head. "Cassain, if Gael doesn't wake – we have the power to stop this war before it's too late! This is a gift!"

"You do not believe in your sister's struggle?"

Garrett's eyes narrowed. He had always been understanding and well versed in the field of politics. In his haste, in his bewilderment, he had forgotten to guard his tongue – forgotten the steward's unwavering loyalty to his sister. Forgotten that there were some people who saw serving their land and serving that land's mistress as two entirely separate things.

Whilst Garrett fell into the category of serving his land, the steward very much fell into the category of serving the name that ruled that land.

Cassain would not want to protect Blackmore. Like Gael, he would want to avenge it.

"Do you doubt your sister, laddie?" asked the steward, gruffly. "Do you doubt that Robert deserves to be taught a lesson about reaping what he does not deserve?" He looked at him for a long, hard second. "Do you not wish to punish him for the death of your sister?"

"None of us had seen Caera in years!"

"She is your blood!"

"For all intents and purposes, my sister was a Baratheon and a Lannister. What the King did was not an insult to Blackmore, it was a mockery of what he stood for."

"Precisely," counted Cassain. "That kind of man no longer deserves to sit on the thrown, would you not agree?"

"That kind of man could squish us like an ant underfoot if he wished it," said Garrett, stubbornly. "Robert Baratheon is not many things, but he is a fierce warrior. Fighting is what he does best."

"And I would like to see him attempt to wield that hammer of his as the fat bastard he is today," snapped Cassain, his face turning a mottled shade of red. "Are you a craven, Garrett? A welp? I never took you for as such, but I have been wrong before."

"I outrank you several times over Cassain," snarled Garrett. "_Guard you're tongue_."

The pair stared at each other across the room, both mutinous, both different continents in their wants and understandings.

Garrett could not ignore the seed of idea that had now planted itself in his mind. Could not ignore the fact that he almost thought it best that Gael _did not _wake up.

He could end this war.

He could undo the damning decisions his sister had made; like making that murdering bastard a knight.

It physically hurt for Garrett to walk by Carrick Bain in the Fort's halls. Seeing the man smugly walk free when he should be in chains. _What had Gael been _thinking?!

Garrett did not have to entertain these thought's long, however.

In the darkest hours of that night, Gael awoke – crying out for her dead twin sister, panting and disorientated; yet very, very much able to make the decisions necessary and with more grim resolve to over throw the crown than ever.

The first thing she did upon waking was to call for Carrick Bain, and Garrett watched from his sister's bedside as he approached her and she gripped the collar of his coat and drew him close.

"I told you to make me weapons, Carrick," she said, and though she was weaker than she ever had been, something burned in her eyes. "Show me how deadly your fire can be. I want to destroy the forces of Robert Baratheon and these Targaryan's who think they can kill me. Break them. And when it is done, there will be no Seven Kingdoms. There will be one. There will be Blackmore."

"You mean to conquer," murmured Carrick, coolly, as she stared into his eyes.

Garrett shook his head, horror and incredulity settling in. "What madness is this, Gael? Do not stoop to the level of petty war-lords. Be the better man!"

"We _are_, Garrett," she snapped, turning on her elder brother. "Look around you. Look at what Blackmore has – our technology, our architecture. The rest of Westeros deserves this. They just can't see it. They're _blind -_"

"It is you who is blind!" snarled Garrett, grappling for understanding – for reason. "You can't do this!"

"Westeros doesn't just need a leader," reasoned Carrick, his voice as calm and measured as ever. "It needs a visionary. Rulers like Robert Baratheon will just keep it stuck in a rut. Draining it until it is a lifeless, deformed –"

Garrett's hand twitched as if he were about to move to hit the older man. "You are tired, Gael," he said; his body cold, his voice hollow. "You have a fever from your nightmares. Go to sleep."

She glared up at him.

"Go to sleep before I make you," he reiterated, more forcefully this time, and - God's help him - half praying that she would not wake up again.

* * *

**A/N **Sorry for the wait! I know it's been a long time since I updated this story and for that I apologize. I hope you enjoyed this new chapter and the direction it takes the story in.

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	10. Chapter 9

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**OLENNA**

* * *

The gardens were filled with the rich odor of roses, and the light summer wind blew amidst the trees. In the air was a heavy scent of lilac, or the most delicate perfume of a flowering thorn.

Lady Olenna Tyrell watched as her granddaughter, Margery, stooped and picked a white daisy from the grass, examining it carefully. She fingered the petals absentmindedly for a little while, and then some thought seemed to take hold of her, and she glanced up abruptly to the two people that sat round a table under the shade of a tree a little way away from her, her round face shining.

"It _is_ rather wonderful," she said. "A _female _ruler – achieving all of this."

Olenna Tyrell rolled her eyes. "You've been sniffing one too many roses, child," she snapped, tapping one gnarled finger on the table surface. "There's nothing men dislike more than a woman with power and there's a reason that Blackmore girl isn't married."

"And it would solve all our problems if she was," added Mace Tyrell, who sat across from his mother. "She needs a man to bring her to heel, not men that will surround her encouraging these radical claims."

"You're just saying that because you think all woman are good for is marrying and to giving their husbands children, father," Maragery teased, approaching them and sinking gracefully into a seat beside her grandmother, taking her hand and patting it once. "You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing – it's very confusing."

"One of the many virtues of being a Tyrell, my dear," said Olenna. "One must take their sigil quite literally, it seems. Lannister's must be brave as lions, Stark's as honorable as wolves and Tyrell's must act like roses. Whatever a rose acts like. We must hide our thorns behind our beauty – you see, dear, subtlety is everything. Being overt is just crass."

"Gael Blackmore has declared herself the rightful heir of the Iron Throne and has declared open war fare on Robert Baratheon," noted Mace.

"You see," said Olenna, to her granddaughter. "Crassness."

Margery laughed – a pleasant, smooth sound. Not too loud, not too quiet, Olenna noted, and very carefully controlled. Oh, her granddaughter definitely had the right of things. She was more of a Tyrell than any of them, and Lady Olenna preferred her a great deal to her obtuse son or grandson.

"Besides," the old lady continued, waving for a servant who stood nearby to bring her a glass of wine. "One does not win thrones by waving sharp sticks in the air and making a scene of things."

"I was under the impression that was exactly how it was done, mother" her son said, gruffly.

"Oh no," said Olenna, taking a sip of her wine – "thank you," she added, to the serving boy, dismissing him from their presence – "there is a saying, my boy; 'every rich man's house has a servant's door'. Why make all the fuss of banging down that expensive, impenetrable oak door, when there are easier ways of entering the house?"

Margery smiled, raising her own goblet of wine and toasting it with her grandmother's. "Subtlety."

Olenna smiled. "My nature may be as blunt as a hammer, my dear, but I understand the need for it."

Mace shook his head. "I understand your ambitions, mother, for the Iron Throne – and I share them - but we have more pressing problems right on our boarders. The Blackmore's are but a few miles to the South of us. To get to King's Landing, they must travel through our lands. We _must_ make a decision on where we stand."

Olenna gazed carefully at her son. Margery had fallen silent. Though her expression was still that of a faint, disinterested amusement, Olenna could detect something more intense stirring behind those pleasant brown eyes. Mace Tyrell stared back at his mother. He could be, she reflected, another Robert Baratheon. He had once been a handsome and powerful looking man, but had since run to fat. An idiotic oaf about some things, too, with out so much as a shred of intelligence – yes, the Tyrell _subtlety _had somehow missed her son. The decision on what to do about the Blackmore's, however much he like to think, would not ultimately be made by him, but carefully manipulated by her. These matters of politics were far better left in a woman's hands, anyway.

Olenna leant back in her chair, resting an elbow on one of its arms. "And what decision might that be?" she asked.

"I will tell you."

She smiled beguilingly. "Please, I am all expectation."

"There is very little to tell," he said, taking a gulp of wine, smacking his lips in appreciation after he had swallowed the rich, red liquid. "We will do what we have always done and side with whoever is most likely to win the conflict; the Baratheons and the Lannisters."

Olenna raised one eyebrow and Mace frowned. "You do not think they will win?" he demanded.

"Oh, I believe they could crush the Blackmore's with out a problem," she said, calmly. "But I will not argue with you on this, my son."

He frowned, his quick temper roused. "Say what you must, mother!"

She smiled thinly – how easily he had taken the bait. How quickly he had become unsure of his actions. "You clearly did not pay well enough attention to your history books as a child, Mace. The last time we swore our allegiance to a House - to the Tarygaryan's - our army and resources were taken advantage of – tied up in that ridiculous siege on Storm's End."

"So what do you propose we do, grandmother?" asked Margery, a slight frown on her face.

"We wait," she said, simply. "We will remain silent, and in that silence, Blackmore will see indecision, and in that they will see a potential and valuable ally. They will want to appease us. As will the King, as our land is all that stands between King's Landing and Blackmore. If we were to declare allegiance to the enemy, they would have one of the largest armies in the Seven Kingdom's right on their doorstep – they will want to gain the House Tyrell as an ally too. To put it plainly for you, my son, though we stand in the most dangerous position, though we have the most to lose, we also have the most to gain. You ask what I think we should do, and I say we should wait to see which of these buffoons has the most to offer us – I refuse to enter another war where we gain nothing."

* * *

**A/N **If you are confused as to where Blackmore lies, google a map of the Game of Thrones houses. Blackmore lies to the West and North West of the Sea of Dorne.

Thank you to the reviewer LadyKatherine29 – who writes the longest and most tactically observant reviews I have ever read!

Please remember to **review**!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N **I've decided to explain a little about Garrett's character in light of the reviewer 'guest's' comments - (sorry, I had to reply here as you left your review anonymously).

I can completely understand where people are coming from when they contest Garrett's family loyalty/house loyalty,but your perception of him isn't entirely the case. He does love his siblings, but you have to remember that Garrett (and Byrde) had not seen Caera in years – and as for the slight her death made to the house of Blackmore, Garrett is more concerned that Gael declaring war will mean the entire destruction of Blackmore. Therefore, not only does he not have the same emotional investment in the war, he thinks she's signed their death sentence by opposing Robert Baratheon.

There's an important distinction between these two characters that I made right at the beginning of this fic. When Gael asks Garrett to look around Altara and asks what he sees, Garrett says he sees 'a people and a land he swore to protect', but Gael says she sees a people 'preparing for war.' Garrett regards Blackmore as something to be protected, but Gael sees it as an ideal that the other kingdom's should strive towards.

It is difficult to explain how important it is for Garrett to think like he does with out giving away his story arc, but rest assured that it is _supposed_to not seem entirely contingent with the ASOIAF universe - Blackmore and some of its characters are supposed to seem a bit different because what they mainly are, are visionaries and revolutionists. It was never my intention to have them fit in with the universe – they were meant to shake the foundations it stood on.

The Blackmore sigil is a gear - and what does a gear do but constantly move forwards?

If you have made it all the way through this rather long author's note I hope, even if you still don't like the character of Garrett, that this clears up his motives a little bit better for you all.

.

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_

* * *

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**BYRDE**

* * *

Byrde rode up at the front of the consort next to Garse.

They were part of a precession of some thirty or forty people, all on horse back, all dressed in the traditional black of the house Blackmore. Every single person had a similar expression of skepticism or dissatisfaction on their face; nobody thought that this was a good idea.

And why should they? They're lands had been plagued for years by the men of the woods, and now their ruler was proposing they ride into the heart of their den and cement an alliance with them.

Looking ahead, Byrde felt like cursing again. The woods were getting closer. They'd be at its edge by nightfall.

The trees stretched as far as the eye could see in a dark, thick strip and then climbed up the slope of the mounts beyond. It was obvious that it would not be easy to navigate through. And what did they have to guide them?

A piece of paper. Gael's bloody map that she'd bestowed on him upon their departure from Altara. It was drawn in heavy black charcoal and seemed to be several hundreds of years old. How could he know it was accurate?

The Clanns territory was constantly changing, though Gael had told him that the outpost they were to make for never would – it was there they would meet with a ranger of sorts, who would guide them to the territory of Parsaii.

Byrde did not like the fact that they might be navigating those woods in the darkness. Gael had sent with him a body of thirty soldiers – Altaran soldiers, mind, not his Rangers. They were trained, but not for the kind of tactics the Clanns deployed. If this was a trap, they'd need daylight to even have a hope of fighting their way out.

Byrde called for camp to be made at a nearby river. Gods burn him, but if he could delay entering those woods by another day, then he would.

The tents were erected quickly and efficiently. Byrde thought nostalgically of his Rangers, who could spend weeks with nothing but the cold, hard ground to sleep on whilst out on Rangings. Altaran soldiers were trained for long, drawn out battles, and –

Damn it, he needed to stop comparing the two.

At least there was not the fuss of making camp that would have been made if they were traveling with noblemen. Gael had done that right. She'd sent her ward Elayne Tully to make everything seem official, but that was it. The girl and he were the only ones riding with a name to them.

That night, Byrde left the men round the campfire and ducked back into his tent. He noticed Garse watched him leave with an unreadable expression on his face, but his second-in-command did not follow him.

In the tent Byrde picked at the sleeve of his cloth shirt. It was made of a good, if slightly stiff, dark material – designed to keep out the elements and contain body heat. He wore his usual leather vest over the top with a cloak and long, dirt-speckled boots. There had been soldiers riding today that had looked more prestigious than the young Lord of Blackmore had. Byrde snorted at that thought, and then his face quickly turned solemn.

Tomorrow, his wedding day, it would not be acceptable for him to wear such attire. It would reflect badly upon his sister and Blackmore, and make a mockery of the deal that was being struck by the marriage.

He walked across the tent to his bed, at the foot of which lay a bundle of grey blankets. Or what looked like a bundle of blankets.

He stripped them back carefully to reveal gleaming steel armor.

Byrde had not worn full armor since he had been eighteen – almost seven years ago – when his father had died and he'd accepted the title of Captain of the Rangers. Gael had had to get the fittings and sizing adjusted for his size and height, but it was still his armor. He could see the slight dent on the shoulder from when he and Garrett had first practiced with real weaponry and his brother had swung a mace at him, crushing his collar bone. Someone had obviously tried to smooth the mark out, but it was still there.

Some strange compulsion seized him, and he stripped to the waist, reaching for the mail shirt to try on the amour.

"I'm tempted, Byrde," came a voice, "but then again, you're now a man betrothed, so –"

He shot a glower at the speaker, pulling the mail shirt on over his head. "What ever happened to family, duty and honor?"

The speaker stepped out of the shadows of the tent flap and more fully into the space. It was rapidly darkening into night outside and the candle they set down in the middle of the floor shed some light on their face - revealing them to be a woman with a troubled frown.

Elayne Tully was seven years his junior – just a few months past nineteen. It was widely accepted that, had Gael been able to pin him down long enough to force him to come to Altara, they would have probably been married. She was an enigmatic young woman, with none of the Tully coloring or physical appearance but for the high cheekbones and small mouth. The rest of her features were dark, giving her a solemn and serious demeanor even in jest.

"Ah," smirked Byrde. "I seem to have struck a chord. Still thinking about running?"

"'Family, duty honor'," she quoted him. "My duty is to remain here as a symbol of the oaths our houses pledged to one another – my honor will be upheld by seeing this promise through."

"And 'family'?"

She did not reply.

Byrde struggled with the gauntlets of his armor for a moment before Elayne came to help. "You'd think you are a child who had not seen a winter by the way you're struggling with this," she berated him, untying and retying the lacing round his forearm. "What kind of man are you?"

"One who follows his idiot sister's idiot plans – even if it means marriage."

"You're a fool, Byrde."

"Maybe, but I intend to be a live fool. Do you think I will be alive for long when my new wife finds out that I'm Captain of the Rangers? How quickly do you think it will take her to slit my throat in my sleep in vengeance for the hundreds – Gods maybe _thousands _– of her people I, and my men, have killed."

Elayne was quiet for a long time. He jerked every now and then when she pulled too tightly on the chords tying on his armor. "Your marriage will give the Clann's the land they have wanted for centuries," she said, eventually. "They will not dishonor Blackmore by murdering you. No matter what you have done."

"You seem to know a lot about honor."

"And you seem to know very little…or you pretend to know less than you do." She regarded him carefully. She was very tall for a woman, and her intense gaze was directly level with his. "All my life, Byrde, I have watched you deny yourself being the man you could be. I've watched you renounce your Lordship, run to the far corners of Blackmore and hide behind the muddy clothing of a peasant – but this is ridiculous. You could be so much _more_ than you are now-"

He stepped away from her. The weight of his armor seemed to be an almost crushing force around him. "More?" he muttered. "More?" He looked at her. "In Altara did you stay in Queen's Fort?"

Elayne blinked, obviously confused at the direction the conversation had taken and the feverish quality with which Byrde was now speaking. "Obviously."

"Then every time you entered it, you saw the statues that overlooked the passage to the doorway. Vallore Blackmore. Robert Blackmore. _Asgon _Blackmore."

"And all of them heroes," said Elayne, touching her forehead as if to ward off a headache.

"And all of them _dead_. I will fight for my country, Elayne - I will fight for my sister – but by the Gods I will not die for them." He had begun pacing, but now stopped and stood still, trying to pull off the gauntlets she'd just laced on. "All men dream of being heroes. But I know dreams from dreams. I know reality."

"Yes, and your sister? The one that's just declared war on the crown? She needs men that will lead her soldiers to battle! She doesn't need men like you, Byrde! She needs heroes like from the stories of old. Otherwise, the Lannister's and Baratheon's will kill us all. That's her reality! That's _all _of our realities!" Suddenly her father's hot-headedness shined through and her anger seemed to get the better of her. She slapped him hard across the face. "_Don't you understand?_ There's no running anymore for you!"

His reflexes were as fast as a cougar's, and he grabbed her arm tightly enough to see her wince. His left cheek was smarting from her slap, so he garnered slight satisfaction from her grimace of pain. "You're a fool, Byrde Blackmore," she spat.

"That's the Tully spirit," he said, comfortably. She tried to jerk her arm out of his grip, but he held fast – a thought occurring to him. "But for all the talk of _me _running, I find it very ironic that we started this conversation with talk of _you _running – which makes me think some of this anger is somewhat directed at yourself."

"Which makes you more bone-headed than I thought."

He rolled his eyes. "You're young, Elayne. You miss your family – that much is obvious. I'm sure Gael would allow you to leave for Riverrun if you said you thought it too unsafe for you here now."

"Don't patronize me Byrde. If Blackmore falls, then the Tully's surely will, too – and I am powerless to prevent either. There, that is what bother's me."

"Blackmore will not fall," he said, confidently.

"Do you have the gift of foresight?"

"No."

"Then I must do all I can to stop your country from falling – and if that involves me kicking you up the _arse _to get you out of your mule-headed ways, so be it."

She finally managed to extract herself from his grip and stalked out of his tent, taking the candle with her.

Byrde watched her go, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.

Gods, he was half thankful that he was marrying Prastagus's daughter now instead of Elayne Tully. Both were just as much likely to be the death of him as the other, but Elayne would probably kill him faster, and for less reason.

* * *

**A/N **Elayne is going to play a larger role in this story than is hinted at here, and I'm super-excited about her character-arc through this story.

Please **review**!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


	12. Chapter 11

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**BYRDE**

* * *

Byrde woke to a cold dawn with a chill, grey mist hanging about the tents.

He roused the camp quickly, and whilst breakfast was being taken, walked down to the base of the stream near which they had camped. The water was cool as he splashed it onto his face and when he stood and looked out, North, across silent hills he saw that the fog was beginning to lift, revealing that dense line of trees only a few miles from the very spot he stood now. They were as dark and as unwelcoming as an omen.

It was a good thing Byrde had never put much stock in 'signs from the Gods'. _A man makes his own luck_, he told himself.

Abruptly, he turned his back on the woods - trudging over into camp with the grimness of one marching to battle. In his tent, he stripped himself of his breeches and shirt quickly, unwrapping the armor once again and beginning the lengthy process of strapping on each individual item.

Byrde could not remember the metal weighing this much when he was eighteen. He could feel it pressing down on him as he tied the black cloak round his neck, throwing it to the side so it hung over one shoulder.

He had always been of a wiry build, in the same way that Garrett had always been tall and lanky. Neither of the Blackmore men were particularly solidly built except for some breadth in the muscles across the shoulders. The armor now made him seem larger than life.

And that was the whole grand trick of war. At the end of the day, a battle wasn't won by who killed the most men, or who gained the most land. Any good leader could still win a battle, even in the face of those odds. No, a battle was won by the side who could intimidate the other into backing down because they had been convinced that, unequivocally and certainly, they were inferior in every way, shape and form; that they would definitely lose.

It was why Blackmore, with its impressive structures and designs, had not been invaded in all of its history. It was why Gael was searching desperately for a superior weapon that would give her the upper hand in this war.

It was why, when Byrde stepped out of his tent, men sunk to their knees respectfully where they would not have shown the courtesy before.

_Seven hells, _he thought, sourly, _a man does not change just because he wears fancy armor._

"They do not bow to you," said Garse, appearing at his side. Byrde glanced at him and realized he must have spoken aloud. "They bow to the name of Blackmore."

Byrde threw up his hands. "My attire changes nothing! I have always had the name Blackmore!"

"Have you?" asked Garse, in his usual dry tone. He was leading his horse, Bella behind him, and the dark haired beast snorted and whinnied as people bustled about them, packing tents and readying horses.

"Gods, you're beginning to sound like Elayne," Byrde grumbled.

"I hope not. That girl could teach your sister lessons in family pride."

Elayne was sat astride her own horse a little distance away from them. The only woman, save for her servant, Elsa, in a camp of thirty men, Byrde had to respect her composure. She was a pretty one, even if she did have her nose in the air half the time, and soldiers were apt to leer at pretty girls, high-born or not.

She caught his eye over the heads of the men moving around her, and a look of satisfaction crossed her face as she took in his appearance. Byrde scowled. _Damn her!_ He swore._ And Gael! And this daughter of Prastagus, too! _What kind of man's life was completely controlled by woman?

The two men approached the picket that Byrde's horse was tethered to, and he vaulted onto its back. Garse handed him his sword and Gael's gods-forsaken map up to him and he checked it quickly. If he read it correctly, they'd be at the outpost by noon.

"We should head out now," he informed his second-in-command. "Send out the order that we leave with in the hour."

Garse nodded once and trotted off.

The men were assembled quickly, and they rode out North faster than Byrde would have expected – they reached the woods by mid-day.

He patted his horse as they stood under the huge branches of the first line of trees. His mount was skittish – prickly and sweaty – and his horse wasn't the only one. He could hear hooves dancing uncomfortably on the spot behind him, sensing the ill-ease of their riders.

He could not blame them. It was dark amongst the trees. Watchful. Clannmen could move as quickly and as silently as panthers and he would not have been surprised if scouts would follow them all the way to the outpost.

_There is no running anymore for you Byrde! _He shook his head of the memory, took a deep breath and kicked his horse into a walk.

The only way to go was forwards.

The men followed him into the woods with out a word.

They tracked north east towards the outpost for a time, weaving in and out amongst the trunks of trees. It was difficult to be sure of a direction, but there was just enough room amongst the boughs above them for him to peek through and get a glance at the position of the sun.

There were no roads, but every now and then he caught signs of deep rivets in the ground that looked like game or hunter's tracks that had been followed for centuries.

Surprisingly, the one person who seemed most wary was Elayne. She moved her horse up to the side of Byrde's, glancing about her.

"There are people amongst the trees," she said in an undertone, so the Altaran soldiers would not hear. "Watching us."

"I know. They're scouts."

She shuddered, drawing her cloak a bit more firmly around herself. It was red and blue – the Tully colors. "They do not look like warriors or scouts to me. Do you not see them? I see them near us as plain as day."

Byrde frowned, looking around. All he saw was darkness and the forest floor. Though he was aware of people following, he had not actually _seen_ them. "I don't see anything," he said, carefully. He glanced at the woman next to him and felt concern rising in his chest. He'd warrant more than a few silver coins that his eye sight was better than hers, too. _What was going on_? "Maybe you're only seeing what you wish to see."

She opened her mouth to reply snappishly when Garse appeared on Byrde's other side. "The outpost. Look ahead."

Byrde looked and saw the orange burn of a campfire with two men knelt by it. They did not stand as his consort approached, merely looked up with strangely calm expressions on their faces. They did not seem phased by the presence of almost thirty soldiers wearing armor and swords.

"Byrde Blackmore," one man spoke up in a strangely accented voice. He had a large axe strapped to his back and his tunic had had the arms ripped off to reveal the Clann tattoo on his left shoulder. Parsaii. "You are late – we expected you yesterday," he glanced at his companion, a man with straggled, brown, shoulder length hair. "You Westori are slow."

_And you are not bloody men of Westeros? _Byrde thought. "Armor slows one down," he replied, careful to bight his tongue after to prevent any other insult from coming out.

The man laughed, as if he had said a joke. He stood, clapping Byrde on the shoulder. "As is the way of the world in all things, my friend. My name is Vaughn, of the Clann Parsaii and I am Prastagus Parsaii's _Stone Dog_. I will guide you to our holding."

He turned to the other man, speaking in a language that Byrde did not recognize. He stamped out the fire as Vaughn turned back to Byrde. "Come," he said. "You will follow me."

The axe on his back glinted as he turned and walked off into the trees, his long legs carrying him smoothly over the terrain. Feeling every bit a high lord fool amongst the Clannmen's humble clothing and rough speech, Byrde urged his horse after Vaughn.

The other, nameless man, stayed behind at the outpost, watching them go with dark eyes.

Vaughn guided them down a steep bank until they came to a large stream, at which he crouched and bent over so low that his forehead touched the earth inches from the running water for several seconds before he straightened and turned to face Byrde. "You tell your men to dismount here and tether the horses to the trees. Water is sacred here, and we must cross the _Seine _if we are to reach the holding. The _Seine _will not be dirtied by your foreign beasts' hooves."

Byrde shared a long look with Garse. The older man shrugged, swinging off his steed. "They might think our customs strange," he reminded his Captain, in a low voice.

"They might think our customs strange, not bloody backwards! This is killing the goat," Byrde grumbled. He did, however, do as Vaughn had bid, tethering his horse to a tree with a spare piece of rope.

Their guide led them a little way up the stream to a spot where it was shallower and narrower than it had been and allowed them to cross. The water was cold, soaking through Byrde's boots, and clearer than any he had seen before.

On the other side of the stream, the trees were sparser and less dense. The sunlight filtered through the leaves more readily here, causing Byrde's men's armor to glint as they moved.

There was no warning of reaching Parsaii's holding. One moment, Vaughn was leading them through the woods, and the next Clannsmen appeared around them, watching warily from a distance amongst roughly hewn huts - children clutching at mother's skirts. It was almost silent apart from the sound of moving feet. Byrde tried to remember under watchful gazes if he'd ever heard of 'Westori' men stepping foot in these woods from his histories. How did Gael contact them? With messenger birds?

The holding had the appearance of a small village, but not one from Byrde's time. _Gods, _he thought to himself, looking around, _it feels like I've stepped back in time three hundred – no – a thousand years. _

One thing was for certain, however, there were more people than he ever would have thought there could be. The holding had to stretch on for at least a mile, and still they did not come to its end. There were more and more crowds gathering to watch – would someone recognize his face or Garse's as a Ranger who had cut down a husband or a brother? The thought suddenly made Byrde wish that Elayne was leading the precession.

Eventually, they reached a clearing of sorts, ringed by large stones or boulders. From what he could tell, it looked as if they'd fallen from the side of the mountain long ago.

At the opposite side of the clearing was what looked like a hall – long and thin in build, made of sturdier wood and with intricate wrought iron talismans about the door with symbols on that Byrde could not identify.

The doors opened and a man walked out flanked by five or six men.

There were no signs of respect made or anything said or done to herald his arrival, but Byrde instantly knew that the man must by Prastagus Parsaii.

He had shortly cropped dark hair and a grim expression, but that would not have been enough to mark him out as Clann Leader from any other man. Instead, it was the tattoo of two crescent moons back-to-back in a circle inked onto the center of his forehead that led Byrde to the realization.

"You are the blood-brother of Gael Blackmore?" Prastagus asked, in a less heavily accented voice than the one Vaughn had spoken in. _Where had these people learnt the Common Tongue_?

"I am."

"I am Prastagus Parsaii, Leader of the Clann Parsaii," he bowed his head. "My water is yours."

Byrde felt himself fumble. Gods! Couldn't Gael have given him a course in Clann etiquette before sending him in to the lions den?!

Prastagus saw his confusion and laughed. "You have much to learn of our customs, Westoron."

"My apologies."

The man's face turned serious. "I accept them, but they are not needed. Water is sacred to us, Byrde Blackmore, but even a Clannmen knows land to be just as important – your sister has promised us land in return for our swords and spears."

Byrde eyed him shrewdly. "Your weapons and soldiers mean nothing unless they are beholden to Blackmore."

"The Clanns are beholden to _nobody_."

"We can offer you access to resources and authority. The Clanns could develop their own command infrastructure with our guidance and you could gain our knowledge and influence which could prove beneficial when you populate your new land."

Prastagus's eyes seemed to spark at that, and Byrde knew he'd made the right move in tempting the man. The three Clann's were constantly at war with one another, but ultimately, Prastagus led them. If he could develop a proper infrastructure, a new land could mean a new beginning. An alliance with Blackmore could accelerate their growth in knowledge and understanding by hundreds of years if they just came out of these woods and saw the surrounding world.

"We are a free people…" he said, unwillingly.

"Bah!" an old woman spat on the ground next to Prastagus. Despite her white hair, she stood with a straight back and had an air of elegance about her that did not forgo her crude manner of speaking. In her left hand she clutched a quarterstaff mounted by a huge blue stone and when Byrde looked at her he saw a circle on her forehead with a ripped line horizontally slashing through it that was obviously supposed to symbolize water. It was Bavia. Clann Leader of Epidii. He had not expected the woman who commanded such fearsome men to be so…old. "Free people!" she scoffed. "Leave it to a man to forsake his Clann because of his pride! Will we still be free when we are numbering so many that we must live on top of each other to stay with in our woods? Will we still be free when the men of the world role in with their greater machines of war and we try to fend them off with pick-axes and spears? If you fell head-first into pig shit, great Leader, you would try to convince everybody it was on purpose! _Free people_!" she exclaimed again, throwing her hands up in the air. "I swear by the Great Mother I will declare another blood war on Parsaii should you forsake this deal, Prastagus."

He scowled, his hand fisting round the pommel of his sword, but said nothing. Byrde sensed his men shift uneasily behind him, clearly concerned that the negotiations would turn ill. "If we are to fight for you," Prastagus said, eventually. "Your soldiers…this group you call the _Rangers_ that you lead – they must be dissolved."

Byrde scowled. "You ask too much of me, Ser. I swear my Rangers would no longer be a threat to you, should you make this alliance with Blackmore. I have not asked you to give up your warriors – these so called _Stone Dogs_."

"True." Prastagus scratched at his chin, and then suddenly seemed to fold. "By the Great Mother, then, it is done. I do swear this alliance with you, Byrde Blackmore. As a sign of good faith, I will give you one of my daughters." He hesitated, a private smirk suddenly dancing across his features. "Your Westronian notions of marriage are not observed here, however. Men take forest wives, but they can just as easily choose to take a different one should they wish. Though I assure you any of my daughters will observe your customs of marriage and remain true, none of them are maidens."

_Seven _hells! Byrde felt the back of his neck heat up uncomfortably. He'd really rather decline the marriage and just take Prastagus's word on good faith, but to not take a daughter could slight him horribly.

"Very well," he said, his throat dry.

Bavia's eyes narrowed, and she pointed a gnarled finger at him. "As we are observing your traditions, Westoronian, you must observe ours. For a man to take forest wife in our customs, they must prove themselves by fighting another." At this, one of the men who had been stood near Bavia stepped away, making his presence known. He was dressed only in breeches, his torso bare except for a chord of leather round his neck, from which dangled several carefully shaped pieces of iron. What caught Byrde's attention, however, was the fact that the man was at least half a head shorter than himself and about half as wide.

He raised an eyebrow, undaunted. "Oh, aye? With swords?"

"A knife," the man growled. "Each." As he spoke, Bryde saw that his teeth were completely blackened.

He failed to see how it qualified as a fair fight, but he turned to Garse. "Help me out of this damned metal cage."

The sandy haired man raised an eyebrow. "Worried you'll have too much of an advantage, Byrde?" he asked, dryly.

"I'm worried because I haven't fought in armor in seven years," he snapped back, impatiently. "Can you imagine how slow I'll be in this? The only advantage that man has on me if I wear this is that he'll probably be faster, if I get out of this, then it'll minimize the gap in speed, see?"

Garse's answer was to stick his fingers roughly underneath the lacing on his gauntlets and pull the ties loose. By the time they were finished, Bryde was left only in his breeches and a long-sleeved undershirt which he quickly ripped to make elbow-length. "I'll buy you a mug of ale, if you do this," Garse said, slapping him on the shoulder and pushing a knife into his hand.

Bryde grunted in reply.

_Let's get this bloody over with_, he thought, sourly.

The man was hovering out in the center of the circle of boulders. Clannmen and the Altaran soldiers alike had gathered in a ring between the stones to watch the fight. There was something about all the observers that was making Byrde antsy – like this would be more of a spectacle than he thought it would.

He walked towards his opponent, analyzing him carefully. The man had black hair that he'd pulled back into a ponytail – the hair either side of the parting had a strip of white running through, though the man could not be much older than Byrde himself.

When Byrde was only a meter away, with out warning, he attacked.

It was a lunge similar to that of a coiled snake, so fast that he barely had time to react by stumbling backwards out of instinct.

The knife slashed a breath away from his face.

_Idiot! You shouldn't have taken off the blasted armor!_

The knife came at him again, cutting off all other thoughts. This time it came jabbing towards his chest and Bryde was forced to step backwards once more – his opponent's movements so fast that he barely had time to dodge, yet alone make his own attack.

_I'm never going to be able to touch him if I don't do something _he swore to himself.

All his senses seemed to converge into one, and his mind was receiving and onslaught of different observations: His opponent had his teeth bared, revealing gruesome blackened shards – he'd obviously used some dye to intimidate his rivals, Bryde's mind registered – and then there was the slash of air from the knife as it moved inches from his skin, the feel of the ground underneath his feet as he danced away, the abrupt collision of his back on something hard, solid –

Byrde's stomach lurched as he realized he'd backed into one of the boulders and could move no further. The tribal man smiled, his motions perfectly fluid as he ended one slash, driving the knife forwards towards Byrde's forehead.

He yelled out, twisting to the side and felt his cheek graze against the gritty surface of a boulder. There was the sound of the knife glancing off rock, and a curse growled out in an unrecognizable language.

Byrde's knife was still hanging uselessly in his own hand, and – with out much time to think about, anything, really – he dropped it and at the same time simultaneously jumped, using his now free hands to reach out for purchase on the rock higher up.

He found it with his right arm, his fingers scrabbling to keep hold – his elbow socket jarring painfully as his arm bore his body weight – and swung his feet up onto another indentation in the rock.

Painfully, quickly, he hauled his body up onto the top of the boulder. It was big enough that the top surface was a steady circular expanse of a few meters before it started to dome off into a sudden drop.

He heard the sound of the other man scrabbling quickly up after him – the disapproving sounds from the spectators at Byrde's flight.

Byrde readied himself. _This is the one moment you get_, he told himself.

His opponent's head came into view, followed by a pair of hands. Byrde leaned forwards, crushing the fingers of the man's left hand underneath his boot. The man gave a scream of pain around the knife that he held between his teeth and Byrde watched as it cut into his mouth, making rivers of gruesome red blood run down his chin. Byrde snarled, grinding his boot a little more, and when he lifted it up, the man's hand jerked away – the fingers crooked and broken.

He clung desperately onto the rock with his right hand, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side and Byrde reached forwards, ripping the knife out from between his teeth.

It was death either way. He watched the realization flicker in his opponent's eyes as he grabbed him by his hair and pressed the knife to his throat. To let go of the rock and fall would mean to break his back and be gutted on the ground, to stay – clinging on to the rock, helplessly – meant that his throat would be slit.

Apparently, he chose the latter. Byrde sliced the knife across his throat from ear to ear – watching the blood fountain out; staining the rock a bright red. The right hand went slack, and Byrde released his grip on his hair. The man fell, dead, hitting the ground with a thud.

Byrde climbed down the rock carefully after him, his expression grim.

It was, perhaps, not the most conventional way to win a knife-fight, but the first thing he had been taught when being trained as a young boy was to always be mindful of his surroundings.

He did his best to ignore the body that was still gushing blood - now onto the grass - and walked on passed towards Garse who was running towards him.

"You buy me ale every night for a _year_ for that," Byrde informed him.

Garse glanced down at the dead Clann member and then looked back up at him. "If you had seen Icaia, you would know that to do that for you would be giving one man too much."

"Icaia?"

"Prastagus's eldest daughter." Garse gestured to the young woman approaching them and Byrde's eyes widened.

"Oh."

* * *

**A/N **I think that may be the longest chapter I have ever written for _Defiance_.

I know the links on my profile page for characters were kind of a pain to go through, so I created a nice page with all the images on that's easier to go scroll through. Just follow the link on my profile.

No reviews for last chapter so please review for this?

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


	13. Chapter 12

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**EDDARD**

* * *

The clouds had finally returned.

Up until now there had not been a day at King's Landing since Ned arrived where there had not been clear, blue sky and sweltering heat. The clouds – fat and grey and swollen, holding promise of a storm – should have been comforting. They should have reminded him of Winterfell. But the thick muggy air that could almost strangle a man did not bare a resemblance to the crisp winds of the North, nor did the foreboding that plagued him remind him of the safe halls of his home.

Like a creeping fungus – like insects in a swarm – the clouds closed in over the Red Keep. The sunlight but a memory.

"I thought it was _always_ sunny in King's Landing," complained Sansa, as he breakfasted with his daughters that morning.

The table before them was laid out with succulent fruits and breads containing all manners of herbs and seeds; there was a selection of meats and cheeses, bowls of grain with dried fruit and rich wines and juices. Ned could remember a time when bread and cheese would have sufficed for him, and it was with consternation that he reached for one of the fruits that Robert had come to love so much.

"King's Landing must weather storms just as any other city in Westoros, Sansa – in some ways, it has withstood more than Winterfell."

His eldest daughter frowned. "But in Winterfell the weather's always beastly; I haven't seen weather more glorious than I have here."

"He mean's King's Landing has weathered more _wars_ than Winterfell, idiot," snapped Arya, skewering a grape viciously with her fork. "And the weather's horrid here," she added, decisively. "It's too hot."

"Only because you wear the wrong clothes," Sansa fought back, trying to conceal her blush with feigned indifference and derogatory criticisms. "You still wear the clothes we wore in the North. You're stupid. No wonder you're hot."

Arya rose to the bait and glowered furiously at her sister across the table. "Just because you flounce round in those stupid Southern gowns pretending to be some Southern lady! You're from the _North_!"

"I _will _be a Southern lady soon! I'm marrying _Joffrey –" _

"I swear by the old Gods if you two keep on bickering like this I'll be sending you _both _back to Winterfell," Ned cut in, sharply.

Arya smirked but Sansa glared down at her plate sulkily. "You wouldn't," she muttered.

She was right, but he sent her a leveled look anyway that prevented her from speaking out of turn again.

They ate in silence for a while, and as Ned drained his cup of wine, he sensed Arya regarding him thoughtfully. He waited, inwardly patient, for her insistent questioning to begin. Arya had always had one thousand questions for him, ever since she'd been small. _Do trees ever fall on people? Why aren't I allowed to use a sword? What's over the Wall? Why do boys always get to do fun things and girls don't? _

He hoped that that curiosity wouldn't get her into any trouble, but more often than not, it always did.

"Is there going to be a war?" she asked, eventually.

The question – just as innocent as any of the other's she might ask – made Ned's heart lurch. "Who said that there was going to be a war?"

"Everyone," she replied, suddenly eager now that she sensed he'd taken up the conversation. "All the people at the markets say so. All the guards. One man said you could practically smell it in the air."

_She hears too much_. Ned mentally added that to Arya's list of traits. Sometimes he wished she would be a bit more like Sansa, and just pay attention to pretty gowns.

When he didn't reply, Arya pushed further. "Will Blackmore really attack?"

"This isn't talk for a child of your age."

"But I want to know!"

Ned sighed. Sansa was looking up at him now with interest, too – though she took pains to hide it. He settled his knife and fork down and looked at his two girls carefully before speaking. "I cannot give you the answers myself, Arya, because I do not know either. I hope, however, that it does not come to a war. Do you remember the Greyjoy rebellion?"

"Yes," she said, sounding slightly crestfallen. "You and the King stopped it."

He decided to leave her with that thought and not add to it. Squashing a Greyjoy rebellion was one thing; preventing a Blackmore rebellion would be an entirely different thing. The Blackmore's were allied to the Tully's. Catelyn's _niece _was in Atlara. Where did that place the Stark's?

_With Robert, _he told himself, resolutely, but his wife's words echoed in his ears. _This is not about alliances between people, Ned. This is about alliances between houses. _

"Don't be so eager for war, Arya," he chided her, pushing his chair away from the table and standing swiftly. "It is never as exciting as you might think."

Sansa looked up. "Are you leaving for the council?"

"Yes. As always I expect you two to be good and _stay within the castle walls_," (at this, he gave Arya a pointed look.)

His youngest daughter pretended to be overly interested in the fly buzzing above her head, and Sansa shot her a scathing look. "We will, father."

He smiled a little at the paper-thin promise and kissed her on the top of the head gently, his lips brushing her bronze hair softly.

He allowed himself to bask in the moment for a second, looking at his two daughters, before the pressing need of the Council pulled him unwillingly away.

* * *

"Took you long enough," Robert boomed, as Ned entered the council chambers.

He was surprised to see his King sat at the head of the table, accompanied by all the other council members.

Varys twitched one supercilious eyebrow, and smiled smoothly. "I think what the King means to say is that you are just on time, Lord Stark. His Grace arrived early and has, unfortunately, been waiting for quite a while."

"What the King meant to say is exactly what he says, Varys," snapped Robert. His face was a brilliant red – undoubtedly from irritation; as of yet there was no wine present at the meeting.

"Of course, your Grace," the eunuch replied, unphased, as Ned took his seat by Ser Barristan Selmy.

Varys shook the voluminous sleeves of his long purple robes down his arms to free up his hands and sifted through some papers. "The small council was called in urgency by the King as he has decided it is time to decide on what is to be done about the threat of Blackmore once and for all."

"How did negotiation talks fair, Varys?" Littlefinger called from across the table. There was a private smirk on his face, like he considered it all some kind of joke, and Ned felt as if he was missing some vital part of information.

"Not well, I'm afraid."

"Not well?" Robert snorted and slapped his thigh. "It's a wonder the bitch didn't piss on your demands for peace. It's what I'd do."

"My demands for peace are the King's demands for peace, your Grace," said Varys, looking up from his pages. His voice was as calm and as sickly sweet as ever, but Ned could sense some bite behind it. "As for you pissing on the requests of the King, you cannot because you _are _the King, your Grace. Such an act I am sure you would find most difficult."

Ned waited with baited breath for the storm clouds to pass across Robert's face, but instead he just let out a bellowed laugh, missing the barb in Varys comments entirely. "Aye, I think I could. I've pissed on myself more than once, I'd wager – now, where is the wine!"

No doubt Ser Barristan Selmy or Varys had had the usual pitcher of wine sent from the table so that the King would not become overly intoxicated, but the King was the King, and a servant was soon sent for and not only was a rich wine and ale bought to the table, but also a wooden board of grapes and cheeses.

Ned did not touch the food or the drink. From Robert's comments he feared that the spirit of the old rebellion still stirred within him and that troubled Ned more than it should have.

"Come," he said, eventually, after the council had helped themselves to food. "What did the girl have to say?"

"Not much, my Lord Stark, apart from veiled threats and insults. I am more worried about what _hasn't _been said thus far. She refused to take me into the capital city, did not divulge overly much in her plans, and House Tyrell and Martell have yet to declare an allegiance."

"As have House Stark," said Littlefinger, smiling slightly.

Ned glared. "The House of Stark is sworn to Robert. He knows this."

"Ah, but the House of Stark is intermarried with the House of Tully. And the House of Tully is sworn to the House of Blackmore. Forgive me, Lord Stark, but isn't your niece, by marriage, currently residing in Altara?"

He fought not to rise to the implications and to keep a level head. However, there was steel in Ned's voice as he replied, "I have not seen Elayne since she was a girl of seven – nor does my marriage to Catelyn hold any sway as to who I will side with in this war."

"But your friendship to the king _does_."

"Enough, Lord Baelish," Robert barked. "Ned is more loyal to me than any other damned fool in this place. I will not have him questioned so."

Littlefinger backed down with out argument, but Ned could see the satisfaction in his eyes as he witnessed the troubled look that he had caused to fall over himself.

_This is not about alliances between people. This is about alliances between houses. _He shook off the thought once again with trepidation.

"Do we know who House Tyrell and House Martell will side with?" demanded Robert, impatiently.

Next to Ned, Barristan Selmy cleared his throat loudly. "It is known that House Tyrell will side with whoever they perceive will be the victor, your Grace. They will wait for decisive actions until they cast their vote of confidence."

"But Highgarden is all that stands between here and Blackmore," Ned interjected with a frown. "If the Tyrell's were to side with Gael Blackmore, we'd have the largest and wealthiest force in Westoros right on our doorstep."

Renly, who had uncharacteristically remained silent through out most of the meeting spoke up suddenly from his corner. "Then we must give them decisive action."

"And I'd suppose you'd be the one to give it to them?" Robert jested, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

The coolness with which Renly shook off Robert did not go unmissed by Ned. Renly had always spoken favorably of his elder brother – the coldness with which he regarded him now caused Ned to wonder what had caused such a change in behavior.

"No, he is right," said Varys, calmly. "We cannot afford to let the Tyrell's loyalty fall into the Blackmore's hands. We must prove to them that the King _will _be victorious in this war." He looked Robert directly in the eye. "Send soldiers South to meet Gael Blackmore's Altaran Army in battle. If done swiftly, the extra soldiers that my spies tell me she is preparing will not be ready and you will have a sure victory."

"What else do your spies tell you?"

"That Altara is nigh impregnable. That Bryde Blackmore left the capital on some mission but days ago. That the Lady of Lies does not have a hope of winning this war should they not find more soliders and that she is striving to find a weapon."

"What kind of weapon?" asked Ned, sharply. He did not like the sound of the way Varys said this; it hinted at darkness, magic – power too much for one woman to wield.

"Who knows," Varys shrugged – seemingly far too unaffected by the news. "But we must strike now, before Blackmore can gain the brunt of their strength, and to seal the Tyrell's loyalty to us as quickly as possible."

Robert was nodding, stroking his beard. He had always – would always – love a fight. The rebellion of Blackmore brought shame to him, Ned knew, because of his murdering Caera and because of his lack in ability to run Westoros. A quick and swift defeat would be necessary to restore faith in him from his followers and other houses.

"Aye," Ned added quickly, knowing from his experiences of Robert at the tourney that the man might jump at the chance to lead the men to battle. "And who will lead these men?"

"I will," said Renly.

Every eye in the room turned to the handsome young man. Only Varys and Littlefinger – as usual – did not seem shocked by the news.

"_You_?" guffawed Robert. "You, who flinch at the sight of blood, Renly?! You, who cried when our maester-of-arms made you wield a sword!?"

"I have almost nine hundred men of the Stormlands sworn to me," Renly dismissed, evenly. "I am a natural leader, Robert."

_But not a natural fighter, _thought Ned. "Who else could be sent?" he asked.

"Jaime Lannister," answered Ser Barristan Selmy. "And myself, obviously. However, neither of us would be able to gather such a large force of men behind us in such short space of time. And time, as Varys has pointed out, is key. The men must set out as soon as possible."

The table was silent for a while, and Ned felt a headache blooming behind his eyes as he realized the inevitable.

So it _would_ be Renly Baratheon who would lead the first battle against the Blackmore's.

* * *

**A/N **Another answer to all your many questions, this time; what part is Renly Baratheon going to play in this?

I'm trying not to make this entirely predictable and to keep you all guessing. I know each chapter isn't completely action-packed, but, like the books, each is a small step forwards or backwards by both sides in the struggle for the Iron Throne.

Please review!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	14. Chapter 13

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**GAEL**

* * *

The songmistress continued her ballad of _The Dancing Lass _and Gael felt her face steadily become hotter. _Gods, _the woman was singing of –

She shifted uncomfortably in her cushioned chair at the head of the long feast-table, glancing round the hall. At the center of the room was a performing theater troop, and to the sides were men sitting at long benches drinking flagons of ales and consuming the feast that had been made to celebrate her return to health after the assassination attempt. The room was dim, lit only by a line of small, flickering lamps set in the alcoves of the walls. The high ceiling was echoing the words of the singing woman loudly and as the men gave a hearty cheer at a particularly explicit verse, Gael was suddenly glad for the low lighting.

"Would m'lady wish a different song to be requested?" Carrick Bain asked, quietly from her side.

"I'm fine," she replied, stiffly. When she turned around, however, she saw that the comment had been made in jest, and her serious, earnest reply had caused a smile to spread across his face. She scowled.

"Why, you're Grace, I did not realize a woman of your position could blush so."

"It is not with in my habit to blush like a maiden, ser,' she replied, draining her glass of wine as she tried not to listen to what the woman was singing. _You're a ruler, _she reminded herself, _not some simpering farm girl. _

But when the next bit of the song reached her ears – "and I'll wear no shift at all!" – she found she required a form of distraction.

"Tell me," she said, settling back in her chair, "how you came to be Lord Tywin's advisor."

"I'm guessing you ask this out of polite courtesy rather than a desire to learn of your enemies weaknesses."

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "But of course."

Carrick leant back in his chair, regarding Gael through dark eyes for a moment. He had not taken up wearing armor as was traditional for any knight in Westeros, but then again, he was not a traditional knight. He continued to wear his elaborately embroided coats; this one a midnight black with bronze stitching at the collar, cuffs and arms in light of the feast-night. There was ink on his finger-tips, she noticed, as he caressed the stem of his wine-cup absentmindedly; the action, somehow, caused her body to flush even more heavily and she reached for her own wine glass quickly, gulping down its contents.

"For what it is worth, as a boy, my family was not rich," he began, slowly. "We were not poor, either – a distinction that must be made, you understand – but amongst all the Lords who served Tywin Lannister, my family was the poorest. My great-grandfather had been given the castle Greenfield by Tytos Lannister for his services to him regarding coin and trade and it sat on several acres of land.

The men and women – yes, the women, too – of the House Bain liked to regard themselves as working professionals; learned in science and matters of trade, coin astronomy and astronomy to name a few. The half-century since my great-grandfather's death, however, was not prosperous for my family. Tytos Lannister was a kind but weak man and was apt to lend his money to men who could not pay the fee back. As our wealth was tied up with his own, we found ourselves poor people living in a rich man's home. Greenfield and the family fortune was divided and subdivided with each – larger – subsequent generation. So my grandfather could not afford what his father could, and my father could not afford what _his _father could, and by the time I was a boy on the brink of manhood, with three younger brothers and two younger sisters the money was simply not there."

Carrick's eyes seemed to be alight, though there was barely any light in the room for their dark depths to reflect. Gael found herself more interested that she would have admitted in his tale. "But status, Gael, as you will know – in any traditional, class conscious world – declines more slowly than wealth. The family of Bain were still incited to weddings and retained important roles in the Lannister family courts but Tywin Lannister – the son of Tytos – did not put emphasis on the learned. He took ruthless steps to rectify the Lannister name and restore his family's honor and fortune from its near ruin – he did not need men who knew books and coin, he needed men who could restore respect in his house. So my family watched with a mixture of disdain and envy at the rising elite of men – the likes of Gregor and Sandor Clegane, Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister.

You must remember that I had been taught all my life that my honor and pride would come from my knowledge and not from my ability to wield a sword. Confronted with the reality that this was not the case, then, I had two choices: take up a sword, on my nineteenth name day, or ride over to Casterly Rock, demand an audience with Tywin and declare that he once again acknowledge my family and what they had to offer. I chose the latter. I was lucky my head did not end up on a spike, in truth."

Gael smiled. "Have you ever known your place, Ser Carrick?"

"Unfortunately not." His eyes lingered on her face for a moment, his voice suddenly serious, "I have never had your certainty."

"In what?"

"Myself. My land."

Gael eye's drifted to the singing woman. She was light-eyed and pretty and danced with swishing skirts and a dress that had an extremely low neck. She captivated every man in the room save the one at her side.

He was handsome in a dark way. Dangerous. If the Lannister's were lion's, then Carrick Bain was the shadowcats that prowled the hills.

His eyes were fixed on her and Gael felt her fingers clutch reflexively tighter round her wine.

"I have not stood the test of time that you have stood through," she said, her voice brooding. "There are hard days coming."

"Are you afraid?"

"I struggle to sleep at night. Is that fear?"

"Some men would say that that was for want of a man."

Her hand clutched so much more tightly round her wine glass she feared it would break.

"My heart belongs to my country" she returned. The words left her mouth before she could stop them – both a warning and a promise – and the wound on her shoulder where the assassin's knife had pierced her skin prickled uncomfortably. She was all too aware now of Cassain sitting on her left. Though he had been conversing with her cousin, Ser Cedric, she realized that they had both fallen silent.

"A country cannot claim a heart, Gael, but it will take a head."

She smiled, though there was no humor in his words. Her finger traveled round the rim of her glass slowly. "You are a wise man, ser, but you think too literally."

"It does not scare you?"

"The power of the people? Never."

"They say a woman rules with her heart and not with her head."

"And they say a child is not fit to rule a country. Am I not both a child and a woman? And yet my enemies still piss their breeches when they hear my name and see my lands," she lifted her eyes to his face. Her voice was steady as she spoke but her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, her voice taking on a different kind of intensity and passion. "Woman are weak. Children are foolish…_Where is this written_? _Who says so_? Who ordered it to be thus? The Gods? _Fate_? I defy them! I've faced the assassins knives and lived - I will not have who I will be preached to me!"

Carrick looked at her for a long time, but did not dine to reply. Instead, he stood from his seat smoothly. "With your leave, m'lady, I will depart the feast now. Your weapons will not invent themselves."

Her grey eyes met his brown ones, and the fire that had burnt through her veins began to cool. _Gods, when did it get so hard to hold a man's gaze? _"You may go."

Her eyes followed him down the side of the hall, his black coat billowing round his knees as he strode down the side of the tables. Two guards opened the huge double doors for him, and he was gone.

Gael was suddenly aware of the music again, and the roaring of men's voices with the hub-bub of drunken talk.

Her hand relaxed round her wine cup and she realized that her fingers were numb and sore from her tight grip. She flexed them, wincing at the stiffness, and tried to compose herself.

"You know what I think of that man."

Gael turned to look at her steward, Cassain. His face was troubled – there were new lines furrowed in his forehead and bracketing his mouth that had not been there but weeks ago. He had taken on just as many cares as she had after she had declared war on Robert Baratheon.

Her heart pinched. "I do," she replied, her voice as heavy as lead.

Carrick Bain was a murderer. A liar. And he was condemned to die at the end of his service to her.

* * *

That night, the air was rent with a sound that resembled a lightening bolt striking stone – a loud _crack_. It was repeated an hour later, and then the hour after that.

Gael lay in bed, listening to the darkness. The first time, she had waited for the thunder, but after three minutes of counting she realized that it would never come.

The noise scared the horses in Atlara below; they whinnied in their stables, terrified, and there was the sound of a hundred birds screaming as they took flight in alarm. The sound was unearthly, unnatural.

Altara slept on, and after several hours of silence, eventually, so did she.

* * *

"What's happened?" Gael demanded, striding into her council chambers early the next morning.

"My Lady," said Bard, bowing. The usual people of importance were gathered round her table, including some of the more distant Blackmore lords – Lord Matrim Blackmote and his son, along with the portly form of Pedrin Niall – who had fathered three times as many bastards as he had true-born children - and Lews Quain; named thus because his ancestors had built the seaport. Their presence worried her – they must have ridden here in some haste.

All of the men stood and saluted or bowed as Bard had done when she entered the room, but she had little patience for formalities. "Well?" she pushed.

"There are reports coming in from our spies in Highgarden," said Bard. "Robert Baratheon has sent an army forth to Blackmore of a thousand men. They do not march with provisions or weapons for siege, only open warfare. They mean to engage us in battle."

"How many days away are they from our boarders?"

"Three."

Cassain knuckled his mustache. "Highgarden. They'll be making for the North-Western boarder –" he tailed off pointedly as Lord Matrim Blackmore leant across the table. "Those are my lands, m'lady. We will be overwhelmed easily if we do not have the aid of the Altaran Army."

"You shall," she reassured him, but frowned all the same. "I did not expect Robert to attack after such a prolonged silence. We planned to be the ones to bring the battle to them."

"We did," agreed Bard, and the tone of his voice made Gael role her eyes in exasperation.

"You're going to tell me that a plan, in warfare, lasts only until the first sword is drawn, aren't you?" she asked, dryly. "Or maybe until the first arrow falls?"

"Or our youngest ruler is caught unawares by a fool," he muttered under his breath.

"Not taken unawares," she snapped, pride stung. She strode over to the table and surveyed the map the men had unfurled on it for a while. "How many of the Altaran Army can we spare to add to Lord Blackmote's men?"

"Only four hundred at present," replied Garrett in his usual, husky voice. He was sat beside Ser Cedric. "The three thousand we enlisted weeks ago are ill-prepared for a battle as of yet and the five-thousand we originally had are training in Lugard – they will not make the north-western border in three days. It would take at least one to send the message to gather arms."

Gael looked at Cassain. "How long 'till Stannis's men arrive?"

"They will land in Kandor in a day. If our men can hold out for two days against Robert's men, we will have two thousand men to back us up and seven thousand more will come across the sea after them."

"That's eight hundred men to hold out against one thousand." Gael chewed on her lower lip for a while. "Meeting that number in open warfare would be folly. Our forces would have to meet somewhere constrained – someone –" her eyes stopped roaming the map and she smiled. "Somewhere like Greybone Pass. It's barely wide enough to let fifteen men forward at a time. Numbers would matter little there."

"Aye," said her Uncle – Kane. He stood from his seat and walked round the table to stand at his niece's side to survey the map. Unlike his nephews, Cedric and Leon, who had the traditional Blackmore blond-orange hair, his hair and beard were brown – as Garret's was – and streaked with silver. "We could use Higher Greybone Pass for harrying – hit them with a constant wave of arrows. They don't know the land, they won't be able to get up there, and it's too high for the range of anything they'll have so they won't be able to hit us."

Gael nodded. "When they see that they have to meet us at the pass, though, they won't want to charge. Make it clear that if they don't, our bowmen will wear them down to nothing."

Kane looked at her. "You would have me lead?"

She smiled. "I could think of no-one better."

"I will fight at your side with pride, then." Lord Matrim stood, clapping Kane on the shoulder. He was taller than her Uncle, and more heavily built with shoulders and arms that could make a blacksmith envious. For such a man, however, he had a surprisingly eloquent voice compared to Gael's Uncle's gruff manner of speaking. "My son, too."

Here, Gael hesitated. Uno Blackmote was several years younger than himself, and could only have just seen his fourteenth name day. He may have had his father's shoulders, but the innocence in his eyes spoke volumes.

Garrett had been just as young as that, though, when he had rode with their father during Robert's rebellion – it was not her place to stand against a father's decision for their son. "Of course," she said, eventually, nodding. "Do we know who leads them?"

She noticed Garrett's mouth tighten, and his hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. "Renly Baratheon."

"_Renly_?" It was not Gael who had spoken, but Leon. For her part, she looked as if she'd been slapped, thoroughly taken aback by the news, on his, her slightly older cousin spoke as if he'd just heard a particularly bad joke. "You can't be serious! Robert can't send his first army headed by _Renly Baratheon_."

"He can and he has," returned Garrett, grimly.

"Has he ever fought in a battle before?!"

_Have you? _Gael thought to herself, but did not voice the sentiment aloud. "Robert would not send someone as inexperienced as Renly to lead his men – even if he does not perceive us a threat. Who else rides with them?"

"Kevan Lannister – Tywin Lannister's elder brother."

That was more to her expecations. Gael recalled Carrick Bain's story from the night before, and remembered that Kevan Lannister had been mentioned. It was said the man was loyal and reliable – and constantly lived in the shadow of Tywin Lannister. Despite that, the man was experienced in warfare, there was no doubt. A good choice.

"We must ride out at once," declared Kane, "and gather the troops."

Gael looked at Garrett and Cedric. "It's not good enough that the best of our men are several leagues away in Lugard. Ride out and station the men at the boarders – if there's a second wave I want to be prepared. Commission the masons to build watch towers every ten miles along our boundaries."

"As you wish."

"Bard, continue training our new recruits as usual and Leon? Send a raven out to Byrde, I want to give him orders regarding the Clanns."

"What land will you give them?"

Again, Gael's knife wound itched. Under the material of her dress, the bandage was bulky and uncomfortable and peeked out over her neckline. "Dorne," she replied. "House Martell are too loyal to the Targaryan's to side with us, and seeing as this Targaryan prince and princess across the sea want me dead, it would be better to eliminate that threat now before something becomes of it."

Cassain threw her the kind of look he always did when she made a decision with out consulting him, but she ignored him.

"Who commands the men Stannis has sent to me?"

"Davos Seaworth, m'lady," her steward replied. "A good man."

"I'm sure. When they land in Kandor, tell Lord Raygmar to send men with one thousand of Stannis's to guide them to Greybone Pass, and tell Davos Seaworth to come to Altara directly with the remaining thousand."

"You would not have him lead his own men in battle?"

"He'll have a second in command that can take his place," Gael deflected. "Robert sent Renly as a test to prove their worth to Highgarden, if it should go ill for us, and the Tyrell's side with the Baratheon's and Lannister's I want to be able to co-ordinate with our allies as soon as possible after the battle."

"Yes, our allies. What have the Tully's said?" asked Ser Cedric. He was a naturally suspicious man, and had voiced concerns over their alliance to the Tully's in the past. Because of that, he had never had an easy relationship with Gael's ward, Elayne. He had sharp and angular features, and eyes so grey that it was like she was looking through him, and seeing instead the grey-blue of the sky outside the windows of Queen's Fort.

"They support our cause but express concern at their isolation from our forces. If the Lannister's were to turn on them, they fear that we would not be at hand to help."

"The Stark's would jump to their defense should anything happen," Cassain dismissed. "Ned Stark is married to Catelyn Tully."

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend_. Did that mean the Stark's were allied to the Blackmore's because of their hate of the Lannister's? Gael wasn't so sure. The Stark's were also the friend of her other enemy – the Baratheon's, or at least, one. _You have Stannis,_ she reminded herself, _and the Tully's_.

Gael could not ignore, however, that her list of enemies was growing longer by the day. _And now Dorne, _she thought. _They are fierce people, they will fight to the last man against Byrde's invasion. _

Abruptly, one of her squire's – a young boy that she'd heard the other servant's call Flea – slipped through the doors into the council chambers. "A message for the Lady," he mumbled, stepping to her side quickly and surveying the grim looking men around the table with awe.

She took the role of parchment from his fingers with a brief smile and Flea hurried out of the room – throwing a last, wide-eyed look at Bard and his impressive broad-sword and Ser Cedric and Ser Leon, both wearing armor with the Blackmore sigil on their chests. Gael unfurled the piece of parchment she'd been given quickly.

On the page lay a few, simple sentences in an elegant cursive script.

_First test of weapon last night a success. Second test this afternoon, please join me at Oakeley Quarry._

Despite herself, Gael felt her smile grow across her face.

It would never matter how many enemies stood against her, or how many assassins were sent for her as long as she had this one man at her side. As long as he was there, they would win.

* * *

**A/N **Hi! I made a trailer for this fic today, and you can watch it on youtube - just follow the link on my profile page!

Please _review!_

_Last Of The Lilac Wine _


	15. Chapter 14

**DEFIANCE**

* * *

**ELAYNE**

* * *

Elayne could feel the eyes like a constant presence. Watchful, always there.

Byrde had claimed that he couldn't see them, and when she'd asked Elsa, Marr and Luric, all of them had given her the same slightly confused, slightly worried look. _There's nothing out there_, they all said.

But even now, under the dark night-time of the trees, Elayne could see the figures moving about in the dusk. Men and women, old and young; they moved as silently as specters or ghosts. The thought made her shiver.

The blue painted symbols on their skin seemed to reflect the moonlight and gleam in the night. Elayne moved silently through the camp Byrde and his men had established for the night. She was naked but for a robe tied loosely round her, and the material dragged softly along the grass, making a faint whispering sound as she moved.

She had been told that the Clann-men were rapists and barbarians and savages, and yet she moved amongst the trees, unguarded, by herself. Elayne did not feel fear, only a half-dream like haziness as she walked through the woods with her ghosts.

She couldn't even be sure that she _wasn't _dreaming; everything was silent and both slow and fast in the way dreams tend to be.

The trees were becoming sparser, and Elayne continued to walk further and further away from the tents of the camp until she came to a sudden rocky ledge. Below was a deep, black pool, and opposite a crashing waterfall. If Elayne picked her way round the rocky outcrop, it would slope gently down to the small fringe of sand and roots to the right that touched the pool's edge.

The air was faintly warm, though the feeble amount of leaves on the trees told her that winter would soon be coming. As a summer child, the thought made her shudder with a thrill of anticipation and fear – her wet-nurse when she was younger had often told of snows so deep, they buried houses and people. Blackmore being as far South as it was, Elayne had never seen snow in her life, or, at least, in her memory. Her time at Riverrun as child was a haze to her, but it must have surely snowed there in the later months of the year.

She reached the small beach of gritty sand and stones of every shade – greys, blacks, lavenders, sea-weed green. Feeling their sharp, slick coldness against the soles of her feet convinced her that she was awake, and the voice startled her out of her dream like state.

"I thought you would come, child."

It was an old woman who had spoken, standing out in the darkness of the water to her waist. She was entirely naked, and the water lapped at skin so pale and sagged with age that it almost looked translucent.

Despite that, when the woman turned and smiled at Elayne, there was something youthful about her appearance – or ageless. She clutched a long quarterstaff that was almost as tall as she was that was mounted by a dark blue stone, and there was a Clann tattoo on her forehead.

Elayne suddenly realized that this was the woman Byrde had described as Bavia, Clann leader of Epidii and head Priestess, though the Clann's did to worship the Seven.

Even thinking it made Elayne shudder, it felt like blasphemy, like a curse.

She wanted to back away and leave, but Bavia spoke again, and something about her words fixed Elayne in place, awed and confused.

"The Mother moves water in a cycle, did you know that?" the old woman asked. She cupped some water in her hands and watched it trickle through her fingers. "It falls from the sky in rain, and the waterfall carries it to this pool and in the height of summer the sun dries up some of the water and takes it back, and then it rains all over again…a cycle…" she murmured, and then looked at Elayne. "…a sure reminder that history repeats itself."

"I don't –"

"Understand?" the woman smiled, walking out of the lake and retrieving her dress from where it hung from a bough of a tree. She pulled it over her head, and then strung numerous necklaces with heavy talismans on around her neck. "Many people believe that those who are magic, or have gifts that their 'Gods' – " she said the name with disdain, "bestowed upon them are a gift at birth. The truth is, my child, it is a choice, and not one many of us make. It is often such a burden."

Elayne smiled, thinly. "If you are here to try to commit me to your own God, I refuse. I worship the Seven."

Bavia rapped her wooden staff on the ground in irritation. "You have not been listening, child," she snapped, looking as if she'd rather clout the staff over Elayne's head. "I do not wish to convert you. I am warning you. _History will repeat itself._ The dark that comes before the dawn, the watchers over the Wall – winter is coming, they will come too."

It was strange, hearing Westori folk lore coming from the lips of a woman whose kin had lived isolated amongst the trees for centuries. Elayne flinched slightly at the mention of the white walkers, but shook her head. "They are old wives tales," she said, steadily. "Stories from the Age of Heroes."

"Not so." Bavia beckoned for Elayne to enter the pool, but Elayne held back, confused and – though she would never admit it – slightly scared. Her heart was fluttering in her chest wildly, and she felt her palms turn slick with a light sweat. The old woman fixed her with a steely eyed glare that cut into her soul. "I would have chosen one of my fool-apprentice's for this, girl, but our future lies South of these woods now; yours is North, at the Wall."

"I can't go North," Elayne whispered, hoarsely. "My family swore an oath…I must remain in Blackmore."

"To break it will be the price of your gift."

"I will not be known as Oathbreaker," she snapped, stung. _Family, duty, honor. _She repeated the mantra in her head. I am my family. Everything I do is for them.

Bavia somehow seemed to sense what she was thinking. "Do not pretend your family or your house is exempt from the end of the light, child. You must play your part as we all must."

"But –"

"Come," the woman said, impatiently – she was already wading back out into the water. "I am giving you this choice. It will come but once. Tomorrow, my kin and I will ride out for new lands, tonight; I must secure its safety in you."

"I am just a child, just a woman –"

Bavia smiled thinly. "I thought Blackmore put all their power and hope in woman-children nower days. Do not be afraid, girl."

Elayne shivered. Suddenly it was very cold. The water looked dark, bottomless. She wanted nothing more than to run back to her tent where Elsa was still sleeping and curl up under her blankets and hide. _Do not be a coward_, she scolded herself, _you are better than that. _Her inner argument almost brought a smile to her lips. Elayne had always been hard on herself – once, she could remember as a child trying to box her own ears because she had stolen food from the kitchens.

_You had to box your own ears, because there was no one else there to do it for you_, she reminded herself. Her family had been several hundred leagues away most of her life, what would she give, now, to see them again?

Almost unconsciously, Elayne submerged one foot into the cool water. She slipped the blue robe off of her shoulders quickly, letting it drop onto the sand and walked out until she the water was touching just above her breasts modestly.

Bavia swam out towards her, cutting through the water more soundly than any young person would have been able to.

"What do I do?" Elayne asked, as she approached.

The old woman had abandoned her staff on the sand along with Elayne's robe so that her hands were free. "Nothing," she said, in a reassuring voice – what she did next, however, was far from assuring.

Her fingers fisted in Elayne's tangled mess of black hair and suddenly she was forced under the surface of the water. The woman was uncommonly – impossibly strong – and Elayne twisted, screaming. She felt as if her very lungs were drowning as water flooded into her mouth. Everything was so dark that she couldn't tell where the surface of the water was…so, so dark…almost black, really.

Elayne was still struggling when she was Gael in front of her. Her whole body froze and she paused, limbs floating aimlessly around her as she watched. It wasn't just Gael, either; there were pictures, floating around her.

Elayne could make out a flying raven, and then a dead one – the two were simultaneous, and yet not, as if the images were in indecision – then there was a dragon and the family sigil of a turning gear coated in blood. Elayne squinted, and then the images seemed to all merge together and dissolve into the water. She suddenly noticed that her lungs were constricting and her rib cage felt as if it was too small, crushing down around her. The hand in her hair gave a sharp jerk and suddenly she was gulping in large quantities of air, crying and gasping.

"What happened?"

"Get off of me!" Elayne screamed, floundering as she attempted to push Bavia away from her.

"What did the Great Mother bestow upon you," the old woman asked, grabbing her shoulders sharply.

"I don't – I…" Elayne's rapidly beating heart began to return to normal pace, and she found that it was hurting less to breathe. "I saw Gael, and…and pictures around her. A flying raven, and a dragon and –"

"Greensight, then," Bavia said, almost to herself. "…I wouldn't have thought..."

"But Greensight occurs in dreams," Elayne protested. "It isn't possible."

"What isn't possible and what is possible will change, I fear, in the coming wars," Bavia, said, gravely. She looked worried, however, something that made Elayne's heart lurch. "I admit the Mother works in ways that we do not understand, but I do not see how…would the sight of the future of humans help overly much against those which are not?" She rubbed her chin and then spat. "Bah. I do not understand it. I expected differently." She looked at Elayne. "You must make for the Wall, child, that much is clear."

Elayne sagged, slightly.

_Blessed Gods_, she thought, her eyes closing in silent prayer. _Thank you_.

A trip to the Wall, would mean a trip through Riverrun.

* * *

**A/N **Sorry for the delay in updating! I told you guys Elayne would be important in this story!

There's a lot I've got to cram in to a certain timeline of events (you'll see what I mean later), which is going to be kind of difficult, but is also good for readers because it will mean a lot will be happening from chapter to chapter.

Please **review**– I didn't get any for last chapter and I'm not kidding when I say it really has an effect on my motivation to write.

Thanks!

_Last Of The Lilac Wine_


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